163 B8 
1918 



g1^ 




^tnes 
From 
France 



hy 

PAUL MYRON 




Class 4^-:a^_L2jlu' 



COPYRIGHT DEPCSrr. 



Paul Myron's Books 

Mid-Nation Publishers (Lineiarger Brothers' successors) an- 
nounce the following completed or prospective publications by Paul 
Myron. The asterisk indicates those books that are illustrated. 

Kindly refer to the advertising section of this 
publication for editorial and other press commenda- 

^'°"* BOOKS ON CATHAY 

Our Chinese Chances.* Widely circulated throughout the 
English-speaking- globe, highly endorsed and commended 
by Sinologues for its sympathetic platform of mutual 
understanding between the Chinese and our own race. 
Although solid with original information culled from 
Paul Myron's long sojourns in China, it is most enter- 
taining and will continue to be a guide-post of Chinese 
interpretation. 

Chinese John. To correct in a delightfully buoyant style 
our common misconceptions of the Chinese. 

Latch Strings to China. Charming studies of Chinese life 
portrayed in cleverly plotted tales of tragedy, mystery 
and humor, . . . with the lurid setting of walled cities, 
and spun as smoothly as the silken weave of a Chinese 
mantle. 

ROIVIANCES OF TRAVEL 

Daniel Dares. Around the world honeymoon story of life 
and love, and a delightful departure from the humdrum 
treatment of the Paris Latin Quarter where the fas- 
cinating plot is centered. 

The World Gone Mad. The intimate story of a woman's 
love as influenced by war. 

Miss American Dollars.* A story of American patriotism. 
OTHER SUBJECTS 

Our Pacific Neighbors. New viewpoints of the Far East. 
Paul Myron's six years' incumbency as United States 
Judge in the Philippines and his subsequent wide travels 
in all parts of the Far East form the material for this 
straight- away narrative. 

The House That Banished Worry. A popular novel of 
human emotion as developed by conventional religions. 
A book that will come like a vacation to tired people, 
as it points to new perspectives of life. 

Bugle Rhymes from France.* The story of the battlefields 
told in spirited verse. 

Ship Players' Comedy Collection. The first of its kind. 
Literary inventions of wholesome fun for presenting 
dramatics on the natural scenery and deck-accessory 
staging of a ship. Paul Myron's hundred crossings of 
the great seas crystallize their delightful experiences in 
these unique comedies that revolutionize ship entertain- 
ment. Both players' and readers' editions. 

Mid-Nation Publishers 

Milwaukee - Chicago 



BUGLE RHYMES 

FROM 

FRANCE 

BY 

PAUL MYRON 

With Illustrations 

BY 

FRANCOIS OLIVIER 



And the Ship Players' Comedy by the same Author 

THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



MID-NATION PUBLISHERS 

CHICAGO 

MCMXVIII 



4, 






.^ 



Copyright 1918 

BY 

P. W. LINEBARGER 



JUL 22 1918 



©Ci.A5U3000 



Be^otetil? Belricatetr 

to fLes Comtattants jTrancats 

of ||estertiap> 

antj to ila j^^ance* 

^ut Cerre, ^ur Mtt et Bans il*9lir, 

of CO'tia^ anti* ♦ » , 

Co^morroto 



CONTENTS 



COIMBAT VERSE 

Prelude 11 

Bon Jour to you, Mussoo Pauloo 13 

The Two Blessees 14 

At Shemang day Dam (Chemiii des Dames) 16 

Poor Boob Pacifist 17 

Gourds and Iron Apples 18 

The Dead Man 's Hill in Lorraine 19 

Over the Top, ... for a Mile 22 

Gawk Swan 's Machine-gun 23 

If I Hadn't Got the Mumps at La Bassay 26 

The Sniper at Bixschoote 28 

How the Prussians Must Be Fought 30 

The Jump-off County News in France 33 

Barrage 34 

Guilmont Farm 36 

A Coat with a Shoulder-strap 39 

The Ambulance That Thought 41 

Old Pip (Observation Point) 45 

Our Seventy-five 48 

The Angelus in Flanders 48 

Wait, Wait, Wait 49 

The Two Transports 49 

Just a Groan from No Man 's Land 50 

Salute the Man with the Hoe 51 

A Hero without Mention 54 

The Trencher 's Gleaming Knife 58 

No Hate in the Trenches 59 

A Joy-ride with ' ' Maggie " 60 

Say, Fellow, Try to Wake 62 

The Chateau Fountain 64 

The Sabre of My Dream 65 

Those Last Hours of the Watch 68 

Ah, Mon Capitaine 71 

A Whim of Death 72 

Sammie 's Letter Home 76 

7 



CONTENTS 



Page 

While Waiting for the Top 79 

Place the Flag on My Body 80 

The Good Old Devil 81 

A Message to the Gunners 84 

A Challenge to Death 84 

An Airplane 's Victim , 85 

The Songs that Mother Sung 85 

A Trencher 's Prescription 86 

Guide Post! Guide Out! Guide On! 91 

Zero Is at Twelve 98 

Merci, Kamerad 99 

In the Dardanelle Trenches 102 

A Bethelmont Grave in Lorraine 104 

The Tale of Chiffon Eags 106 

The Tale of ''Guess" 112 



THE SUNNY SIDE IN FRANCE 

Sammy and the Demoiselles 20 

Heave on! Yvonne, Heaven 29 

French Wine in Barley Soup 40 

On the Eue de Kivoli 43 

Sunny France 46 

The Sappeur Pompier 46 

On the Lovely Lys 57 

The Faubourg Saint Antoine 81 

BUGLE ECHOES AT HOME 

Our Heroes 32 

Camouflage and Camoufleurs 35 

The Sign on the Wall 37 

A Mother 's Prayer 44 

Take the Eoof from Your World 45 

The Crown of Old Glory 46 

Taps in France 47 

Sweetspice and Ointment 53 

The Little Hun Children 60 

The Land That Knows no War 66 

Across the Ocean Dreaming 69 

The Way to Victory 69 

8 



CONTENTS 



Page 

The Wheel of Life, . . . and War 70 

Sanfairyann (Cela ne fait rien) 72 

He Is Our Soldier 73 

Three Wars, . . . One Flag 74 

In France, . . . Somewhere 77 

Put Us Across the Sea 78 

The Day of Peace 79 

Speak Only Hope 83 

The Kaiser 's Creed 83 

The Tale of a German Spy 87 

The Crumbs of War 91 

The Guardhouse Lawyer 92 

Peace Again 93 

By Her Lonely Soldier Graves 93 

Sayonara 94 

A Slicker in Baccaroon 95 

Close Up for Coal 96 

He Died a Soldier 's Death 97 

War's Kismet 100 

Her Mirror 100 

The Dove of Peace 101 

Li-ber-ty Bo-onds 101 

My Garden of Peace 103 

Good-bye, Papa 105 

A Hero of the Legion Ill 

THIS SIDE OF FRAKCE 116 



PRELUDE 



After the drive, , . . the bugle; 

Dead or alive, . . . the bugle; 

It's taps for a few, and a flaming adieu, 

But the ranks fill anew, to stand in review, 

When we assemble back to the bugle. 

When it's night, . . . the bugle; 

When it's light, . . . the bugle; 

Let it sound off away, in the thick of the fray, 

We'll follow it on, till the war is won, 

We'll follaw the call of the bugle. 

From Artois' plains, the bugles, 

Repeat the strains of bugles. 

From the Dunes of the North, to the shell-torn swarth, 

Of the gorge-ribbed Vosges, and the Alpine snows, 

And the Argonne woods, . . . call the bugles. 

Start the band with the bugle, 

Sound the charge with the bugle; 

It's a call there from France, for the "Rainbow Advance/^ 

To our allied cheer and the bugle clear, 

To the song and call of our bugle. 

At guard mount sound the bugle; 

Let the flags salute with bugle; 

For Old Glory is there, with the Tricolor fair, 

And to bugle flare, we shall do and dare, 

'Neath those flags, to the call of the bugle. 

When strife is done, . . . the bugle. 

When war is won, . . . the bugle. 

It's taps for a few, but reveille too. 

For our millions who march in the peace review, 

With heads held high to the bugle. 



11 



BON JOUR TO YOU, MUSSOO PAULOO 

To speak French well, I'd undergo 

The greatest hardship that I knowj 

Just to be able to relieve 

That force of feeling I conceive. 

Whene'er I see those soldiers true, 

Who fight for France and fight for you. 

Alas, when they go passing by, 

I've naught but this child's jargoned cry: 

"Bon jour to you, Mussoo Pauloo,* 

Vive la France and her Allies too, 

Bon jour to you, Mussoo Pauloo." 

There's nothing white, in blood that's French, 
'Tis all strong red, in field or trench. 
They shed it free as springtime rain, 
And pure it is from staui of Cain. 
They only fight to right a wrong, 
And win they shall this contest long, 
With strength of blood ; the blood they shed, 
The strength of living and of dead : 
We'll see you through, Mussoo Pauloo, 
Though we but say, "Bon jour, Pauloo, 
Bon jour, our true, our brave Pauloo." 

They brought a poilu back to die. 
Safe from the shells that tore on by. 
I stooped and lifted up his head, 
And in his eyes, Death's story read, 
As surgeons probed the ghastly rent. 
Made by some hell-forged implement; 
Above the heart it was and deep; 
I thought he murmured as in sleep : 
"Vive la Finance and her Allies too," 
And I answered soft : "Adieu, Pauloo, 
Thy heart was true. Oh, brave Pauloo." 

• Pauloo. anglicized from poilu (bearded) ; popular name of French 
soldiers. 

13 



THE TWO BLESStES 



,The probe went deeper in the wound, 
Deep, deep it sank, the searching sound, 
Till from his eyes these words I heard. 
Though from his lips came ne'er a word: 
"Strike deeper, where my heart blood shows; 
'Tis there, my country's heart blood flows; 
To France I gladly give my blood, 
To fill her heart's unending flood." 
A prayer for you. Oh, brave Pauloo, 
From my own heart and country's too. 

We laid him in a shell-cut tomb. 

The guns sung requiem with their boom. 

I knew that dead, he lived on still. 

Lived on a spirit with a will— 

The will to conquer or to die. 

The spirit war can't crucify. 

Living and dead, those brave men fight. 

And hold God's standard to the light. 

So you're for us and we're for you, 

Vive la France and her Allies too, 

Bon jour to you, Mussoo Pauloo. 



THE TWO BLESSEES 
(The Two Wounded.) 

We bit the road at ninety miles; each time the engine pumped, 

A whiz bang shell smashed at us, as straight down the road we 

thumped. 
Inside we had eight blessays * from the red Poste de secours, 
Which was by far too many on that awful crimson tour. 
We saw the little village smashing in a storm of shell, 
WTien Henry reached up to my ear, so I could hear his yell: 
"Stop! There's a blessay waving; wait till we can pick him up!" 
So right in all that spouting road I brought the car to stop. 

And sure enough a blessay there. was flat upon the ground, 
Half hid within a little wall the shells had knocked around. 
A poilu with a horrid wound fresh trickling from his side, 

• Wounded. 

14 



THE TWO BLESSEES 



Whose face was still serene and calm in all that bloody tide. 
We reached to lift him to the seat; he motioned us to wait; 
And then he showed us where beyond, within a "cmmp-hole" * great, 
A comrade writhed with legs cut off, well up above the knees. 
"I'll stay," the poilu simply said, "but take him with you, please; 
He has a wife and children too, and ought to have first place." 
And as he spake a wistful smile o'erspread his noble face. 

We hadn't any time to lose, so on we sped our way. 
While Henry held that legless man with life fast ebbing 'way. 
And in a daze I wondered if I'd see on my next run, 
The hero who had stayed behind and played Samaritan. 

Well, when the guns were easing off and it had slacked a bit, 
We went right back for that poilu, right to his bloody pit. 
And when we came up to the hole the "crumpers" f routed out, 
We both leaned forward eagerly and gave a joyous shout; 

For he had seemed to get new strength, while he was left alone, 
And stood straight up beside the wall, his arms upon a stone. 
He looked so easy-like and strong, we thought we'd hear him call; 
We came beside the grim form, tall ... it did not move at all. 

His face was slightly turned aside, as if he were in prayer. 
And down his side the blood had ceased its crimson gushing there; 
A smile of happy youth and hope hid every line of pain, 
As there he stood and looked away upon the field of slain. 

"We're here to take you safely back; you^re generous and you're 

brave," 
I said, and took him by the arm. "We trust your wound's not grave." 
But not a word came from his lips, his voice was stilled and dumb, 
And when we closer looked at him, we saw the end had come. 

Yes, he had gone to that fair land, that knows no war nor pain, 
And angels bright had welcomed him up from that field of slain. 
And on his face that smile of Peace, shone with such saintly love, 
It seemed to be his soul that came to bless us from above. 



* Shell-hole. 

t 5.9 inch shell. 



15 



AT SHEMANG DAT DAM 



AT SHEMANG DAY DAM 
(Chemin des Dames) 

It wasn't what you'd call a ladies' pathway; 

It wasn't what you'd call a maiden's lane; 

But we slipped along attentive, more politely, 

Than a dandy dancing out most grand and sightly. 

To ballroom music played in fullest strain. . . . 

For it was bang, bang, bang, ... as we slapped the mud along. 

And it was zirr, zirr, zirr, ... as now we nearer came; 

And I felt my head a dancin' to a feelin' not entrancin', 

As we came well in the muss, at Shemang Day Dam, 

With the bam, bam, bam, ... a drummin' through our heads. 

Lord, I'd like to tell of half the crazy hell. 

At Shemang Day Dam, . . . with its bam, bam, bam, ... as we 

wallowed on 
To join the bloody jam. 

1 don't know how the Frenchies chanced to name it; 
I don't know how they ever called it so ; 

I only know that now it's got a meanin'. 

That would set the deadest corpse alive an' dreamin' 

Of everything that told of human woe. 

For it was bong, bong, bong, ... in the devil's own ping pong, 

And it was zah, zah, zah, . . . with the mud up to our belts. 

But we grabbed our guns more steady and got a bit less heady. 

As we came well in the muss, at Shemang Day Dam, 

With that bam, bam, bam, . . . drummin' flashes through our heads. 

Oh, gad, . . . those Tteut machines, that we smashed to smithereens. 

At Shemang Day Dam, with their bam, bam, bam, ... as we pumped 

our guns 
Within the devil's jam. 

Of course, it's mighty nasty, all this bloodshed. 

And gets a fellah's stomick quite a bit; 

But it's worth a thousand years of common livin' 

And a thousand fortunes ready for the givin', 

To feel you're one the Huns can never hit ; 

Though it's crish, thud, dud, ... as we club in give-and-take, 

And it's scrape, sisb, jab, . . . along with point and edge, 

16 



AT SHEMANG DAY DAM 



And to feel your bayonet wrenchin', though your slippin' in the 

trenchin' 
Makes a man feel he's a soldier. Ah, Shemang Day Dam, 
With your whack, zim, bip, . . . acrackin' on the head; 
The common skirmish fight ain't nothin' by the sight 
Of those hand-to-hands with Heinie at Shemang Day Dam, . . . 
At Shemang Day Dam. 

I used to envy men who had their millions. 

And always thought I'd like to take their place, 

Until that night of ice and mud and water. 

They whispered out the word to start the slaughter. 

And then I knew the mettle of my race. 

For when the bang, bang, bang, . . . came tearin' through my ears, 

I knew I had within me something money couldn't buy; 

A thrillin' in my feelin' made me know the world was kneelin' 

To men who had the courage to fight it through or die. 

With the bam, bam, bam, . . . adrummin' through their heads. 

What's the joy of hoarded gold, when you know your feet ain't cold, 

And you've stood the gaff of blood. 

At Shemang Day Dam? 



POOR BOOB PACIFIST 

So ye don't want to serv^e yer country nohow, 
Yer conscience's agin such a call; 
Well, jest slide along! Git out o' my way! 
Like the rest of the insects that crawl. 
You poor boob! 

I 'spose that ye think that this grand IT. S. A. 

Grew up like a bean on a stalk; 

That all that was done in our grand history 

Was nothing but hot air and talk. 

You poor boob ! 

I 'spose that ye think that the wars that we fought, 

Were won 'cause they jest happened so; 

That the bomb and the gun are jest for the Hun, 

An' we're safe, if we jest, take the blow. 

You poor boob ! 

17 



POOB BOOB PACIFIST 



Wliy, ye talk like a donkey that stands up and brays 

In empty rain barrels east aside; 

And who thinks that the universe stands still and harks 

To the sound of his bray, for its guide. 

You poor boob! 

Why, you're like the monkey who's got a pet flea. 

An' tickles itself with its itch; 

An' pities the monks who haven't got none, 

An' thinks that the flea's made him rich. 

You poor boob! 

I know that ye think that our blood is jest white, 

That yellow's the tint of our skins; 

That the shape of our spine is made to recline. 

While the Teuts take a kick at our shins. 

You poor boob! 

Well, I'm sure ye're right, when ye talk of yerself, 

But don't count me in with yer kind; 

For I'm off for the front, to take the war's brunt, 

With a squint back at you there behind. 

You poor boob! 

For I don't mind the guns that boom there in France, 

For I'm dealin' with men on the front; 

No, I don't mind the guns of the Huns there at all. 

But I'm scared of the pacifist runt. 

You d— d boob! 



GOURDS AND IRON APPLES 

The old game, the good old game, the game of the grand baseball. 

But played in a way that by old rule-play. 

Would rile up the umpires all. 

For it's zim, zim, bang, . . . with a cr-ack just beyond, 

And it's swish, zim, bang, ... in the ear, 

But still it's the game and thp. good old game, 

As played by the hand-grenadier. 

IS 



GOURDS AND IRON APPLES 



The old game, as played in France, don't number its players by nine, 

But they have their place, with the men on base 

'Long a thundering big field line. 

And it's straight as a gun that they point their run, 

And straight to the rule throw the sphere. 

Just like in the game, ah, the good old game, 

Now played by the hand-grenadier. 

Those grenades are lovely things (when thrown sixty yards away), 

But when they fall plumb, and bust frolicsome. 

They knock the night into day; 

And it's joy imeonfined, like a bat to the sky, 

With the runs coming home in a gear, 

When there in a daze you see a trench raise. 

Busted up by the hand-grenadier. 

Grenade-guns are likewise fun, and can pitch a farther ball, 

But the hand-grenade is the toy that's made 

For the man that's run to the wall. 

So pass 'em out to the trenchman's shout. 

And we'll pet and we'll fondle 'em dear, 

For when you know how, it's a game, . . . full, complete. 

Playing ball with the hand-grenadier. 



THE DEAD MAN'S HILL IN LORRAINE 

They call that summit "Dead Man's Hill," 
And it looks just like its name, 
As it takes the brunt of the Verdun front 
Enwrapped in barrage flame. 

Not far away murmurs the Meuse, 
And the dead men's blood flows there, 
Adown from that hill, in a sickening rill, 
That grows with each gun's glare. 

A fearful place is Dead Man's Hill ; 
'Tis a hell, not hill, right named. 
And time ne'er shall tell, in war's parallel, 
More numbers in maimed and slain. 

19 



THE DEAD MAN'S HILL IN LORRAINE 

Yet this Golgotha of martyred dead 

Shall be a temple of Peace, 

With an altar and shrine of God's own design 

And fountains of human surcease. 

The God we shall worship, in that temple midst, 
Shall not be the red god of war. 
Nor brass gods of lust, nor Molochs of dust, 
That Murder and Greed adore. 

The God we'll worship on that height. 
Is the God who is leading our hosts ; 
Who'll point us the way, till that final day. 
When Moloch is stilled in his boasts. 

And then upon that blood-red hill. 

And where'er our brave were slain, 

We'll offer our prayer for those martyred there; 

For those who died not in vain. 

They call that summit "Dead Man's Hill," 
But 'tis God's hill just the same- 
He the God of our might, and the God of our right; 
The God of our living and slain. 



SAMMIE AND THE DEMOISELLES 

I'm glad there ain't no mashin' laws. 
In France to hinder you. 
When 'long as yer a gentleman. 
The girls are ladies too. 

So start right in with what French words. 
Ye know how to pernounce ; 
They'll look quick at yer unyform, 
An' smile back in response. 

So then jest tip yer hat an' ask, 
"Comang vou zapelay vou*?" 
Which means in French, "What is yer name?" 
They'll sure give it to you. 

20 



SAMMIE AND THE DEMOISELLES 



Sometimes it's Jeanne or else Jeannette, 
Or maybe it's Manon, 
Perhaps Adele or Gabrielle, 
But queens they are, each one. 

They'll answer somethin' ye can't get, 
'Bout "Vou noz aliay" ; 
Then with a sigh, you say good-bye; 
Their names will with you stay. 

You will recall their faces too; 
They'll follow as ye go : 
Suzanne, Yvette, Frangoise, Georgette- 
All friends now that ye know. 

I'll never see Ursule again, 
Forgotten has Ariane 
My face and flush and foolish blush, 
Wihile askin' for her name. 

And Claudine, . . . she with raven hair, 
Justine of angel's grace; 
Demure Marie and Melanie, . . . 
Each name's sweet as the face. 

And Lavinie and fair Fortune, 
And beauteous Eugenie; 
I guess they thought me jest a loon, 
An', gracious, pardoned me. 

I'm goin' to the front to-day ; 
Their names are with me still ; 
These demoiselles, in fancy dwell, 
In mansions by the hill. 

Beneath which I'm to go on guard, 
To see no harm comes there. 
And they above, for France's love. 
Will voice for me a prayer. 

So have no fear, Clarisse, so sweet. 
Sleep on, Mignonne, so fair, 
I'm here with g-un, till war is done. 
And naught shall harm ye there. 

21 



OVER THE TOP FOR A MILE 



For you all make me think of her, 

My girl in Michigan, 

Whose heart is true, the whole war through, 

E'en if her name's plain Ann. 



OVER THE TOP FOR A MILE 

"To-morrow's just another day, 
But the fated day of all, 
Since the order came to start us off. 
And over the top at call. 
Two little tops I've made before. 
And two hell's divides I've seen; 
But I'm ready to go again at the call, 
With a laugh and soul serene.'' 

"Over the top for a mile. 
Waiting the call with a smile; 
An hour, a day, ... it may be for aye. 
That I go for the top in a while." 

"The folks at home, I'd love to see, 
And there's much I yearn to tell 
Of the thoughts that now come crowding in. 
As I wait to wade through hell ; 
But I don't suppose 'twould be any use. 
If I die, . . . they'll know in a while ; 
But will they know of the fight I shall make, 
Wav over the top for a milef 

"Over the top for a mile, 
With a prayer, a sigh, a smile, 
My life's for my country, my blood for the flag. 
When I go to the top in a while." 

"We can't live on beyond our time. 
Though we rest on beds of ease; 
Deaths differ greatly more than lives. 
King Death seeks none to please. 

22 



GAWK SWAN'S MACHINE GUN 



But of all the deaths, the one I choose, 
Shall be the one called brave, 
Like that which waits, there on the top 
With which I'd find my grave." 

"Yes, over the top in a while, 
Let me lead first in the file, 
If life's worth living, life's worth giving, 
Should I fall on the top in a while." 

"I hear a whisper; 'tis the call — 
'Adieu, . . . farewell to all, . . ." 
And from the parapet's shadow and gloom 
They start like an ocean swell. 
On, up they go, ... a thundering crash, 
And the world's all changed to a hell : 

For they're over the top for a mile, 
Our wrongs to reconcile; 
God grant them power, in this dire hour, 
While they fight for us, . . . and a mile. 



GAWK SWAN'S MACHINE GUN 

"Gawk," was the name they put on him, when first he come to school, 
Aridin' in back from the woods on some old lop-side mule ; 
He started out as pupil in next to the lowest class. 
For that was where the teacher thought perhaps he'd mebbe pass. 
He was so blamed long legged and he was so clumsy tall. 
He reached straight through one comer, there from aisle to black- 
board wall ; 
He didn't seem to mind a bit, so they just called him Gawk, 
And Gawk, they named as the joke of foolish schoolhouse talk. 

"Hey there. Gawk ! Hump yer mule up an' walk. 
For ye've come right smart to this lamin' part, 
An' ye can't let yer Maud stand and balk. 
Make her go on, that skeleton. 
Jab her, an' make her go on." 

23 



GAWK SWAN'S MACHINE GUN 



A year of fun and kiddin' Gawk had scarcely yet been passed, 
Afore they knew good-natured Gawk had got them all outclassed : 
He'd made in every grade we had, nigh hundred full per cent, 
It seemed he'd learned 'most everything a school can represent ; 
So then he said good-bye to all, and went with his old mule, 
Back in the woods beyond the hills, where no one thought of school. 
They didn't see no more of him till when they made the draf ' ; 
Then Gawk bobs up from out the woods, like some long, lean giraffe. 

"Hey there. Gawk! What ye think of war talk? 
But ye won't hev to go, for yer mule's too slow, 
An' yer both overmuch on the walk. 
No garrison for ye to go on, 
For you're a phenomenon." 



Gawk only laughed and waited there, till last his name was reached. 
When nearly all the others had exemption claims beseeched ; 
And since Gawk was alone we knew, his mother's sole support. 
We 'lowed that Gawk would sure go down exempt in that report. 
But Gawk stood up an' asked as how the law allowed each man 
The right to have his pay held back, from when it first began. 
To his dependents back at home, allotments of the pay. 
The board said "Yes. Thirty a month," then Gawk began to say : 

"Well, I guess that I'll go on, 
A dollar a day, that'll be mother's pay. 
Which she says will last while I'm gone." 
In comparison, when he went on. 
The slackers all looked wan. 



It wa'nt no time afore there came a letter through the mail, 
That told how Jo-ab Swan was made a sergeant of detail 
Of guns that just one man can shoot a hundred times at once, 
And then we all soon realized that Gawk was no man's dunce. 
And when the money came that month to pay his ma's account. 
They paid her t^aee and more again than just that first amount. 
Then no one called him "that Gawk Swan," nor laughed at his old 

mule, 
But all the girls commenced to tell how smart he was in school. 

24 



GAWK SWAN'S MACHINE GUN 



For they guessed that heM get on, 

In a walk or a run, with his new-fangled gun, 

An* the war only just half begun. 

"Yes, Sargeant Swan, he'll get on. 

Yes, he'll be with those who've won." 

And then there came some news one day, in Sunday's supplement; 
Some news that from the Front in France, by cable had been sent. 
Which told what Sargeant Swan had done, with that there gun- 
machine. 
While aeroplanes were buzzin' down and bombin' at him keen, 
And shells were throwin' iron hail and diggin' holes about. 
And he alone left there alive, ... his gun still spoutin' out. 
And how they thought he ought to turn and make safe for the pit,— 
But on he stayed jest where he was, plumb full of nerve and grit, 
And kept right on with his machine, ablazin' through that hell. 
The shots close tearin' by his head, the air alive with shell. 
lOn, on, . . . he went, . . . huggin' the ground, his gun ever ahead. 
On toward a tunnel's mouth of flame that raked the live and dead. 
Where Prussian rifles shot at him, behind his hose of fire; . . . 
Still he moved upward, now and then acuttin' through a wire. 
Quick crawling with his cartridge belts he dragged along with care; 
Then, yard by yard, he pushed straight up to that death tunnel there. 
Where full a hundred riflemen banged at him as he went, . . . 
But he knew every minute just upon what he was bent. . . . 
Oh, would he make it? Think! A hundred guns against one man. 
Thank God! He kept on with his fire, until they broke an' ran. 
So in the tunnel there he staid and held the Huns at bay. 
Until our troops could take the hill at early break of day. 
Our men then lifted him on high and called him "Captain Joe," 
(And that he will be such same day, is natural, you know). 

And that's the story that we boast, all over this here town, 
For Swan is in our history, our hero of renown. 

• • • • • 

Ahem, . . . there's something else beside, that I might just as well 
Put in this story of the war, that now Pm tryin' to tell. 
The prettiest girl ye ever saw ; at least in this here town, 
Announced on hearin' this same news, she'd canned that slacker 

Brown. 
An' now she's put a picture up, a picture in Brown's place; 

25 



GAWK SWAN'S MACHINE GUN 



It's Jo-ab Swan's own picture, with his rugged, handsome face, 
A picture that she cut right out of Sunday's colored page ; 
Her father is a man enough to help her on, I wage, 
For he's the man that owns the bank and most the granaries, too. 
But he'd give all and life beside to see his country through ; 
But that same man who's built this town and made it all to grow. 
Ain't done a thing to help it on, compared with Swan, ye know; 
For Jo-ab Swan in foreign land, with courage, vim and snap. 
Has done more service far than him; Swan's put us on the map. 

When he returns, we'll all turn out and wait at the depot. 
With bows to knees, the town trustees, will stand all in a row. 
No July Fourth will ever be a holiday more great. 
Than when we welcome him back home ; a day we'll celebrate. 

How do I know, you ask, he'll have all this renown? 

Well, . . . just because I chance to be the man who built this town. 

Yes, I built the town and made it to grow ; 
Many a long year, I've hustled 'round here, 
But now let my leadership go ; 
And I'll take off my cap to such a brave chap. 
To such a brave man, as "our Joe." 



IF I HADN'T GOT THE MUMPS AT LA BASSAY 

Bill said that something sure would swat 

The joy of life in France ; 

But who would dream that just the mumps 

Could spoil a fighting chance ? 

We laughed when packed thirty or more. 

Within a car Fransay; 

With slivered boards and rotten floors 

And two days to B assay. 

But, Oh, La Bassay, with hell and thunder play, 
Prepared for front attack, . . . and just me ordered back; 
They said that I was dangerous with the mumps. 
What d'ye think? A measly little case of lumps. 
All ready to attack, the saw-bones push me back, 
Back from the fun at La Bassay. 

26 



IF I HADN'T GOT THE MUMPS AT LA BASSAY 



So there in quarantine for mumps, 

They stuck me way behind, 

With still our guns against the Huns, 

To keep me e'er in mind 

Of what I'd lose in fun and all, 

Just there beyond the hill, 

Right in my place another face, 

With grins of thunder thrill. . . . 

Oh, Lord. La Bassay with hell and mumps to pay; 
The men now on attack, . . . and me a mumpy wrack. 
Made prisoner by those sissy, sawbone chumps. 
Who's had bad luck passed out in bigger thumps'? 
Alas, alack, . . . pushed back, ... by orders from the quack, 
Back from the fun at La Bassay. 

Next day they brought the stretchers in— 

A bayonet wound for Bill, 

Of which he's proud, ... he got it fair. 

When way on top the hill. 

I sighed to think how Bill proved there, 

A real soldier man. 

Like brave Jim Stead, shot through the head, 

The first death in our clan. 

They'd fought like devils, in gun and bayonet play. 

In that surprise attack, . . . and mumpy me held "back; 

Just me, dog gone it, with sour apple mumps. 

It didn't seem 'twas fair, nor really on the square, 

To mark me back and in that sickly almanac, 

Back from the fun at La Bassay. 

Now all have mumps who rode that car. 

But that don't help a bit; 

For they've had luck and stood 'em off 

And proved their soldiers fit. 

In mumpy ward, I'm made their nurse; 

They rub it in for fair. 

In telling me about the hill, 

And what I missed up there. 

27 



THE SNIPER AT BIXSCHOOTE 



"Our rush at La Bassay; Gad, how we plugged away; 

At every boomm' crack, we laid the Kroutheads back, 

As at 'em we would go with devil's jumps. 

Why didn't ye postpone yer little ease of mumps? 

Ah, 'twas a grand attack when we drove the Prussians back, 

Back on our drive at La Bassay." 

Well, . . . that rough stuff gets on your nerves, 

So once when all alone, 

I guess perhaps a little tear, 

My sorrow all made known 

To her, the angel passing by 

Who was, as well, head nurse, 

Who said with smile and deep drawn sign : 

"We're still at La Bassay, 

And on that other day, for you I'll watch and pray. 

Look forward, then, not back; the world is bright, not black; 

We all in life must take its jolts and bumps." 

And when I looked on her, I quit cussing the mumps, 

And knew in France, I'd have my chance, 

If ever cured of mumps at La Bassay. 



THE SNIPER AT BIXSCHOOTE 

At Bixschoote there I saw him, with the mud up to his gill. 

With nose poked down along his gun, he aimed and fired at will; 

He sure did do some pottm' with his telescopic sight. 

For scores of beggars I saw go, pitched by him left and right. 

He pitched 'em left and right ; he drilled 'em with delight. 

He grinned and mumbled to himself, in Bixschoote's muddy fight. 

"Here's one for the head that planned the war, 
And one for the hands that made it, 
And one for the heart that keeps it on. 
And a hundred for them that aid it." 

His number one, I'm sure he got, I heard the Heinie yell ; 

His number two, he dropped for fair; his third he pitched to hell; 

His fourth a corporal he nailed, who popped his head above. 

And still the sniper chanted as at the Huns he drove. 

They popped their heads above and got the devil's shove, 

While still that sniper chanted on his melody of love. 

28 




"I know a girl down by the quay, who works in an estamina;; 



(Page 29.) 



THE SNIPER AT BIXSCHOOTE 



" Here's one for the Kaiser, king of hell, 
And one for the Kronprinz too. 
And one for the Hapsburgs and the Turks, 
And one for the Bulgaroo." 

Flat on that muddy, slippery hill, I saw him 'most the day. 

His body wallowed deep in mud, as on he blazed away; 

And 'twas toward night before the Tents could spot him in the pond. 

For he was covered so with mud, 'twas wondrous he was found. 

'Twas wondrous he was found, all snuggled in the ground, 

And just his crack demoniac, awackin' from the mound. 

But when the Prussians spotted him, my Lord, how I did run ! 

They turned four batteries loose at once, with every single gun; 

I yelled to him and plunged below, deep in the safety hole ; 

He still staid on and potted back ; God save his weary soul. 

He staid and potted back against that gun attack. 

While shells clawed up that tiny mound and dried the water black. 

With one for the head and mind so true, 
And one for the brave eyes steady, 
And one for the heart that no fear knew, 
And one for the hand e'er ready. 

And when the night had come between and called the firin' off, 
I crawled up there to where he'd been in that red sloughy trough ; 
I heard him moan ; a bloody lump, with half his bones in mud. 
And this is what he breathed to me, awelterin' in his blood. 

"Love and a prayer for the babes at home, 
Love for the wife who's borne them, 
And a prayer for the dead, I've made this day. 
And forgiveness from them that mourn them." 



HEAVE ON, YVONNE, HEAVEN 

I know a girl down by the quay, who works in an estaminay:* 
Her hair is silky, thick and brown; her cheeks as soft as ripe peach 

down. 
She's got a way an' dash an' style, to make you daffy on one smile. 



* Estaminet, coffee house. 

29 



HEAVE ON, YVONNE, HEAVEN 



But devil take it; spite of all, this wondrous, lovely, beauteous doll 
Can't speak a word in my own tongne (just to speak her's, I'd give 

a lung) ; 
But none the less, I stuck 'round there, till I was gone and gone for 

fair. 

One day, I sat and sipped cafay, when in comes bustin' some ole jay. 
And cries to her, as if he's stewed: "Heave on! Heave on!" in 

manner rude; 
Well, that's no way to call for drink; I knocked him down 'fore he 

could think. 

The perliee then run me to jail, with not a hope of gettin* bail; 
Till she brings an interpreter, who got my story far and near. 
"Ha, ha," he laughed, "You're all to blame, for 'Heave on, Heave 
on,' that's her name." 

But she inflooenced the perliee to give me full, complete release ; 
And by her side, I walked back proud, at how her eyes told me out 

loud, 
I'd made a hit with my bum bull, and that with her I had some pull. 

So now I'm workin' hard on French (although it gives my jaws a 

wrench) ; 
I've learned her name : it's spelt YVONNE ; not English "e-ven," 
But accent even, like: "EE-VUN"; and with her heaven was begun. 



HOW THE PRUSSIANS MUST BE FOUGHT 

When first I saw those posters gay, by the recruiting stair, 
It sure did take my breath away, in admiration fair, 
To see those men so noble grand with ball-room, model grace. 
So I goes in and takes the dope, to join their golden lace. 

But I didn't know those dandies had to dig ; 

That they dug, dug, dug, . . . from reveille to taps. 

That they dug, dug, dug, till they were blue. 

Oh, who 'ud ever thought the Prussians must be fought, 

Adiggin' first a hole to see 'em through. 

30 



HOW THE PRUSSIANS MUST BE FOUGHT 

My rifle is my sweetheart (and ever true you know), 

And when it comes to shootin', well, I've got the grade to show. 

And even in the company drill and all the other stuff, 

I'll take my chance with any one, to show I'm up to snuff. 

But nix on that grave man's job for me. 

With its dig, dig, dig, from reveille to taps. 

Dig, dig, dig, you sloppy smear, 

Oh, put me in the open, with just my sweetheart near, 

And I'll take my chance of shooting in the clear. 

Jim Stacy was my bunkie mate, my true, my only pal, 
I loved him like a brother, and he loved me just as well; 
But I with that blamed pick one day, forgot he was behind. 
And takes him one upon the head ; a wallop most unkind. 

Just because they make us shoulder picks, 

Dig, dig, dig, an' ye wallop on yer pal, 

Dig, dig, dig, and in his head a dent. 

Oh, who would ever dream that the army rules misdeem, 

A pick to be a soldier's implement f 

They say that from the Prussians we've learned the caveman's trick, 
That made an honest soldier man fight with the spade and pick ; 
Well, now I know the reason why I'm fightin' in this war : 
To pay them back for that foul play ; they've carried it too far. 

When they teach us how to use the spade and pick. 
And to dig, dig, dig, from "Flint" to "Soupy Hill," 
And dig, dig, dig, through rock and glue. 
The staff don't understand that the diggin's not in sand, 
But stuff that sure would kill the devil, too. 

They've taken all the poetry out of the soldier's game; 

And marked us down just diggers, in everything but name; 

Oh, Lord, if our George Washington could see our diggin' bunch, 

He'd think the country that he made had caught the devil's hunch. 

For in his glorious day, he didn't make ^em dig 

The way they dig to-day, from reveille to taps, 

Dig, dig, dig, . . . till you are blue; 

lOh, who would ever thought, that the Prussians must be fought, 

Adiggin' first a hole to see 'em through ? 

31 



OUB HEROES 



OUR HEROES 

Oh, come and gaze on this picture fair 

From the palette and brush of God. 

"Ah, no, ah, no, ... I cannot go." 

Then I saw that the eyes were blind. 
Though the face was sweet resigned. 

Oh, come and walk through the fragrant meads 

That lead to the mountain yon. 

"Ah, no, ah, no, ... I cannot go." 

And a fold of the blanket showed me where 
The helpless trunk from the limbs was bare. 

Ah, come and gather these flowers rare 

That laugh in the new-born day. 

"Ah, no, ah, no, ... no use to go." 

And the twitching stumps the reason gave, 
Where arms had fought, his race to save. 

Oh, come and hear those glorious strains, 

That blend with the bugle call. 

He answered not, his voice was stilled. 

No more for him, those calls that thrilled 
His comrades on, so God had willed. 



Uenvoi 

Oh ye, the blind, the mute, the halt, 

Oh ye, our heroes, now for aye, 

lOur firesides cheer, your winter drear. 

Shall comfort through each night and day; 

A feast is yours, that we shall serve. 

With eager, tender hands to ye. 

For blind and maimed and halt and dumb, 

Ye still are more complete than we. 

32 



THE JUMP-OFF COUNTY NEWS 



THE JUMP-OFF COUNTY NEWS 

It's a little weekly paper, called the Jump-off County News, 

And it hasn't even got a patent side ; 

The ink's a little blurry and the type's a trifle worn. 

And the news-part isn't long* nor very wide. 

But I tell ye, when I get it and start right in to read, 

A ton of other papers wouldn't give 

A half the satisfaction that I get in every line, 

For it concerns the town where my folks live. 

I'm a thousand years the wiser, since I left that little town, 

And soldierin' in Fl-anee I've seen a lot. 

I never thought the world could be so marvelous and full 

Of any part of what it's done and got. 

But put it down as certain, that when we've licked the Teuts, 

With honorable discharge after my name, 

I'll break right back way yonder to where they print that news, 

To that little town of simple country fame. 

I'll say "Howdy, Cap Taylor, I hear ye've sold yer farm" ; 
And "Allow me now, friend Doctor, you to congratulate" ; 
And "Hey, there. Bill, I'm glad yer cotton's made ye rich." 
And everybody'll wonder why it is I'm up to date. 
And then I'll go on talking about the drainage ditch. 
About the farmers' club and institute, 
And they'll all marvel how it was I got it there in France, 
Where they'd supposed I'd only gone to shoot. 

I tell ye, if it hadn't been for that there Jump-Off News, 

I'd thought of droppin', sometimes in the mud; 

I'd be so tired of gimnin', so shook with shell and shot, 

That it seemed to stop the runnin' of my blood ; 

But then I'd think of something I'd read about at home, 

And I'd feel my blood amountin' fast again. 

Till my rifle 'ud come back steady, as if on a parade. 

And +ben I'd up and plug with steady aim. 

They sent us out patrollin' one rainy, dead-black night; 

With luck, we safely made the Prussian net. 

When all at once they hooked us, with a thousand bustin' bombs, 

The only one was me, they didn't get ; 

33 



THE JUMP-OFF COUNTY NEWS 



Well, in the mud and darkness, I slapped and slipped about, 
Until I knew their terrain like a book, 

And could tell the ways and turnings of their intricate redoubt, 
And got the job all fixed we undertook. 

And on the information that I brought back right away. 

At break of day, we made our devil's rush, 

And cleaned out their redoubt, 'fore the Huns could raise a shout ; 

And the colonel gave me credit for the brush. 

When they mentioned me in orders, I laughed within my hide. 

And had to turn my face away and smile ; 

For it wasn't any bravery that made me turn the trick, 

For I thought of that there paper, all the while. 

And how I'd say when I got back to my little way-off town— 

"By gum, you've made some progress in the world, 

I never thought that Jump-Off would ever get renown, 

When off we marched, Old Glory all unfurled" ; 

And then to all I'd up and tell, the reason why they'd done so well, 

With 'leetric lights and city water works; 

It is because that, in that town, where I want to live and die. 

There ain't no room for slackers nor for shirks. 



BARRAGE 

I never could quite get the hang of some of these French words. 
They've got a sort of foreign twang, as if they're sung by birds ; 
But I can tell you what they mean, and where they fit as well. 
And on barrage I'm veiy keen ; it simply just means hell. 
Barrage— the time we go ahead equipped in full detail. 
The "crumpers"* boomin' loud and fast their dead man's lively tale. 
And then ahead, the "iTim jars"! fire, from hell to highest sky. 
But on ye go— that's just a flier— to the barrage bime by. 
For that barrage just sweeps ahead, a molten hurricane, 
A broom made up of iron red, that cleans the hill and plain ; 
But deep beneath and in the ground, or concrete "pill box" J walls, 
The Huns wait on the baiTage round, that soon beyond them falls. 



* 5.9 shells. 

t Trench explosives. 

t Defensive structures. 



34 



CAMOUFLAGE AND CAMOUFLEUB 



So swing yer gun and pitch yer bombs and smash the Heinies out, 
For if you don't, "Good-bye to you," in all that barrage spout. 
For otherwise it's just the thing, that barrage, . . . don't ye know, 
That barrage from our gunners' guns, that makes it safe to go. 

When God turned out from heaven fair Old Nick of hellish ire, 
I 'spose that God let thunder loose, and called it "barrage fire." 



CAMOUFLAGE AND CAMOUFLEUR 

Uncle Sam is looking night and day, for a thousand men mechanical ; 

He wants 'em with their brushes and he wants 'em with their paint, 

And he wants 'em, though with union mles tyrannical ; 

For he's in an awful hole, . . . the Staff cannot control, 

In a fix that may bring annihilation, 

For he's got a million men, and then a few again, 

Yet, no ca-moo-flurs, for the combination. 

Lord, why didn't some one say, advisin' like a fool. 

That "The war's to be won, not by the gun, 

But by mechanical men, with a tool." 

By mechanical men with a tool, sir, 
Who can make the foe out a fool, sir, 
Li paintin' mirage an' green camouflage. 
On the rollin' Atlantic pool, sir. 

So come on, ye heroes of the day, ready with yer brush and yer tur- 
pentine, 
Bring on yer canvas, yer metal and yer sheet. 
An' wallop out a scene most serpentine. 
Just paint this transport blue, with an ocean swell or two. 
That 'ud fool any submarine commander. 
And on our sectors there, pamt a waste of desert air, 
That will make the planes go flyin' by in dander; 
For, shucks, . . . this war is yours, on a steady union scale. 
For it's all to be won, with paint, . . . not gun. 
For its ca-moo-flage, that makes the Prussian quail. 

It's ca-moo-flage that wins to-day, sir, 
Paintin' ships a tender whale-grey, sir; 
A hundred batteries, it turns to grass an' trees; 
It's never for a moment known to fail, sir. 

35 



GUILMONT FARM 



Vive Camouflage ! It is a hero's game, when once we've got it speci- 
fied. 
But there's just a little item, I hope it won't affect, 
When we've got it all right rectified ; 
And that's the use of paint, to make Old Nick a saint, 
And hide the "pro" and "slack" against the nation; 
For camouflage is for just the foreign end of war, 
And not to cause at home our consternation. 
So, Mister Camoufleur, 'fore ye sail on foreign tour. 
Just stripe each "slack" and "pro" a color that we'll know, 
And rub his yellow deep, to make it sure. 



GUILMONT FARM 

They still do call it Guilmont Farm, though such it doesn't seem, 
For there's no sign of grass or stalk, nor bit of cropping green; 
And that whole stretch of blowing sand would photo like the moon, 
With cratered range of cindered land, as if scooped by a spoon, 

Scooped by a giant spoon, my boy, 

Scooped by a great big spoon. 

The thousand years they worked that farm, the soil was never turned 
The way I saw it, plowed and disked, as guns upon it churned ; 
They knocked that farm to hell and back, they knocked it to the skies, 
And when it fell to earth again, they knocked it 'round endwise. 

Knocked 'round and 'round endwise, my boy, 

Kjiocked up and down endwise. 

The rich black loam that used to be the farmer's happy pride, 
Is now down 'neath the chalk and clay, with orchards there beside; 
But still the soil will some day be more waxy- fat and rich, 
Than ever back in olden time, from something in the ditch. 

From something in the ditch, my boy, 

From something in the ditch. 

A hundred years from now, perhaps, they'll plow with aeroplane, 
And plow so deep they'll snag upon what's in the lower vein ; 
They'll turn up guns all filled with crests the Kaiser had marked out, 
And then they'll start to wondering what the deuce it's all about. 

The deuce it's all about, my boy. 

Who knows what it's about"? 

36 



THE SIGN ON THE WALL 



And then they'll stop the "plowoplane" and let the gearing lag, 
And go right down to try to solve the mystery of the snag; 
The Kaiser's arms in boastful scroll, they'll see on brazen shell, 
And then they'll burst out laughing with, . . . "They exiled him from 
hell," 

Exiled him from hell, my boy, 

Too bad, even for hell. 



THE SIGN ON THE WALL 

I've hung a sign upon the wall, there in my tiny room, 
Whose words shine bright, like lilies white beside a coffined gloom; 
And all alone I read the words, and there alone I pray. 
Unbounded choice could not replace the one who's marched away. 



inpon tbfe wall, let me recall, 
l^our &uti2, first supreme; 
lt)our Dutie to ^our country true, 
lanto tbe last extreme* 



Upon that wall I hung the sign, the day he marched away; 

The tears that blurred and marked the ink, burned hot and deep that 

day; 
For war came when we thought to wed, but now the wedding dress 
Is with his roses put away, till peace brings happiness. 



IKIlttb tearful eiges upon tbe wall, 
11 still live in m^ Dream; 
3Por brave anD true, be's answered to 
Ibis country's call supreme. 



I look upon the words at dawn, and tell them one by one. 
As if a garland rosary, with beads of hope woven ; 
I think of him, my love in France, with war and death between. 
And then I hear him calling me, in voice that comes serene. 

37 



THE SIGN ON THE WALL 



*Xbe worOs tbat ecbo from tbfe wall, 
Come trom our prater supreme, 
^bat calls out to our country true, 
2lnD our \{tc*e bopes redeem/' 



One day the work was cruel hard, my strength, I felt, was gone, 
And when night came, I swooned away, helpless and sick and lone, 
When on the wall in lettered gold, the words came with a song; 
I heard my soldier calling me and felt his embrace strong. 



IT've come back from tbe war to isou, 
Zo sou an& love supreme; 
Zhc war is won, life's now begun, 
^be past was but a Dream. 



L'envoi 

My life has ended, yet begins, in memory's perfumed air; 
Benignant promise lifts a catch whose gates shows gardens there; 
There where the moming-'s ruby glow breaks o'er the lonely lea, 
And by the balsam firs roses gTOw, that he shall pluck for me. 



The ocean waves that separate, shall ripple to a shore, 
Agleam with golden, fruited hills, our home forevermore; 
His caress shall my south wind be, his kisses roses rare. 
Each petal, soothing balm to me, the war forgotten there. 



ZTben spin out, Ibours; quicftlis weave 
^bat golOen Da^ for me, 
Mbose sun sball rise, wben w\>q glaD eses 
Sball see our Victoria. 



A COAT WITH A SHOULDEB-STRAP , 

A COAT WITH A SHOULDER-STRAP 

I wouldn't trade for shoulder-straps, my 'listed rank and pay, 
For when it comes to charging boys, we've got the right of way ; 
We've got the right of way, my boys, as long as we don't shirk. 
An' in these scraps, the shoulder-straps ain't what does all the work. 

Young Claudie King, our mascot babe, was in a charge we made ; 
A thousand men we numbered first, astartin' on that raid. 
Our bloody fire just wiped 'em dead, when every gim was loosed; 
But when they countered back on us, we too, were some reduced. 

And of the score who on the drive, had got up to the wire, 

Alone remained that Claudie King, in that terrific fire ; 

The shells were diggin' down to hell, an' rainin' from the sky, 

So we just watched that Claudie King and thought it was goodbye. 

But Claudie King just stood there cool, an' popped and banged away; 
Of course he seemed a childish fool, in dangerous sport at play; 
He stood a target plain and clear to every passing shot, 
Which every time you'd bat an eye, were crashin' all about. 

But not a touch they made on him, so when we got our breath, 
We all did wonder, solemn, grim, how Claudie 'scaped his death; 
An' when we saw as how he stood, and took his ground so true. 
We thought we'd take an equal chance an' go an' see him through. 

So up we rushed to Claudie King, and got there just in time, 
To see the Krouthead inf antree upon the trenchin' climb ; 
They numbered two platoons or more, we numbered barely one, 
But what we didn't kill right there, we put all on the run. 

And Claudie King, that soldier babe, when asked 'bout what he'd done, 
Just said that he had wished to be the first one with his gun ; 
An' he was sure the first of all, and led us to that scrap 
Which he would not, if he had been a coat an' shoulder-strap. 

He wouldn't trade for shoulder-straps, a what he done that day. 
As on the trench he took his stand, against the gunners' play; 
For Claudie is a soldier man an' wants a soldier^s fame. 
An' in these scraps, the shoulder-straps ain't nothin' but a name. 

39 



FRENCH WINE IN BARLEY SOUP 



FRENCH WINE IN BARLEY SOUP 

Oh, when this war is over, I've still my life to live, 
And when I cash my pay roll, a fortune's mine to give; 
So when I get my discharge, and all my money too, 
I'll hie me back to Paree, to that Latin Quarter Rue. 

Oh, Suzanne, I'm acomin', acomin' to Paree, 

To help you dry the salad and mix the chicoree; 

You'll leave the door forever, of your sky-high chambre meublay,* 

While we ride about in taxi, on that our weddin' day. 

Upon the cab we'll flourish high, the R^d and White and Blue, 
Old Glory and the Tricolor, both flags for me and you ; 
An' as we grandly ride about, new pleasures we shall seek, 
An' cry at steady intervals, "Vive France and Amereek.'^ 

An' I'll forget what war has done, an' you'll forget your dead, 

An' we'll look bright before us, on the day that we are wed. 

An' for your brave departed ones, in Notre Dame we'll pray, 

An' hang their pictures in our home, near the Flower Market Quay. 

For oh, I love you, sweet Suzanne, an' love your grand Paree, 
An' there I'm goin' to laugh and live, along that winding quay; 
We'll eat our "crescents" in the mom, chez Gil, with caf-o-lay. 
An' then at night, all fresh and bright, we'll dine in some palay. 

I've not a single woiTy now, I've not a single care, 

I'm slappin' mud most joyous, when the bombs are in the air; 

For eveiy Pnissian shell and shot, that quakes the ground and me. 

Is just another punch mark in my ticket to Paree. 

Wait, Suzanne, I'm acomin', acomin' to Paree, 

To take the crepe and ribbon off, that hang lugubriously. 

An' in their place we'll put muguet,t with sprigs of rosemary. 

An' plant a wreath of immortelles, on your graves, ... in Paree. 



* Furnished room. 
t May-lilies. 



40 



THE AMBULANCE THAT THOUGHT 



THE AMBULANCE THAT THOUGHT 

They think I'm crazy when I say, my Bleriay has a mind, 
And of this fact, I know myself, it's hard the proof to find ; 
And when you see it standing there, a car just like them all, 
It seems to be as brainless as a shadow from a wall. 
But let me tell you first the tale, and then you shall decide, 
That though it's made like all the rest, it's got a mind inside. 

You see, for eight and twenty days (it seems as many years), 
I drove that car, there at the Postes, in all its fastest gears, 
To bring back from the farthest lines, the wounded lying there ; 
By night I mostly made these trips, by light of rocket glare. 
Though oft by day I've whipped her through, when blessees could not 

wait 
Or when they picked them up so fast, their number was too great. 
Six stretchers had I in that car, and 0, the tales they'd tell, 
If speak they could of suffering and wounds from shot and shell, 
Of muddy, bleeding lumps of men, masses of oozing flesh, 
Smeared out of what an hour before had been young manhood fresh ; 
Sometimes with wounds all gaping wide, or backs all torn to shreds, 
Or weights of iron from a shell deep fixed within their heads. 
Oh, God, the horrors that I've seen, and 'gainst which all I pray 
May never here on earth again be found in armed array. 

Well, to the Postes, the wounded came, and sometimes gruesome fast, 
And up to them I'd shoot my car, while shells shot swifter past ; 
The stretcher men would load them in, beneath the gunners' flash, 
And I'd gear up to ninety miles to make that homeward dash. 
Back from that bloody firing line, my road raked o'er with gun, 
Hard taking every ounce it could, I'd make my auto run. 
And speed it, while the shells plowed up the sod and dirt about, 
'Till bathed with sweat, at last I'd come to where the hill stood out. 
And then I'd help the wounded out, my clothes all sweated wet. 
And quickly shoot it back agam, still weak with clammy sweat. 

I couldn't tell the times I've gone that road that led to death. 
But know I've always made it sheer, just holding to my breath. 
They say that driving ambulance is just a woman's game. 
May be it is when men, themselves, are merely so in name ; 
And I've been called a "bally slack," and called an "embusque," 
But no one would have called me that, who'd seen me on my way. 

41 



THE AMBULANCE THAT THOUGHT 



Well, the last day I drove that ear, the call came urgent quick. 
And I humped down and up that vale as fast as the Old Nick, 
For in a hellish quarter hour, they'd killed eight hundred men, 
And there were full a thousand maimed awaiting for me then. 
So back and forth that bloody day, I made my crimson run. 
The Prussians still asmashing wild, in barrage just begun. 
While I upon that quaking road, with no one else in sight, 
Would hit that engine ninety miles, in frenzied dread and fright; 
And when I'd think that just perhaps, the engine might go dead. 
My knees would knock terrifically in sweat and fear and dread ; 
But all that day I came and went, . . . and free from all mishap. 
Until, ... I made my final trip, . . . back on my final lap. 

I'd loaded up my six men red and started from the Poste, 
And passed the little stumpy wood that was half way at most. 
The g-uns banged out a racket that near whacked me from my seat, 
And every shred of flesh I had, just felt like chopped mince-meat. 
They were the loudest, fiercest guns I ever yet did hear, 
And made me know as on I rushed that death was very near. 
The road was now cut with new holes, the shells kept digging in, 
And broke and smashed like geysers round, with a terrific din. 
But in that midst of flame and dirt the engine dug ahead. 
And I thanked God, the chances were it wouldn't quit me dead ; 
But all at once, . . . just like a shot, . . . just like a flash and thrill. 
The engine banged a moment on, and then it stopped dead still. 
As something passed before my eyes, with just a funny sting. 
While I sat gripping at the wheel, too scared to do a thing. 

After awhile I tumbled out and cranked, . . . then cranked some 

more. 
Perhaps 'twas just a dozen times, perhaps a dozen score; 
For I was mixed so in my head, in dirt and noisy flame, 
I really think I couldn't have told what was my Christian name; 
So there I stood beside that car, in that most awful din. 
Just looking at the blood that flowed from those I'd packed within. 
I said a prayer for them and me, then cussed that Bleriay, 
(I wouldn't have cussed, had I known then, what now I know to-day). 
I waited there and watched that blood, . . . can't tell how long it was ; 
Then I reached down and spun the crank, . . . and gave it just one 

buzz; 
When zip, . . . the engine started up, the valves commenced the roar, 
And in a minute we were off, with dripping tracks of gore. 

42 



THE AMBULANCE THAT THOUGHT 



But here's the wonder of it all, and proves the ear can think, 
As we went on, the shelling stopped along that brimstone brink; 
And I could see as on we went, the reason why, you know. 
The car juct stalled and balked on me, and simply wouldn't go ; 
For had we gone a single yard, beyond where it had stopped. 
To sky we'd gone in one big smash, and back in bits we'd dropped. 

Well, ... to the base, I brought my men, though three had breathed 

their last. 
A steward took me by the arm, and looked at me aghast, 
For on my brow there was a mark seared deep down to the bone, 
He said it was a passing shell that grazed my brow alone ; 
He showed me how my helmet was a mass of flattened steel. 
That saved my eyes, . . . then suddenly the world commenced to reel, 
And 'twas perhaps three days or more before my mind was right, 
And then I could remember how the shell had passed so light. 
Because Old Bier' decided then, to wait there in a stall. 
And that was how the shell flashed by and hardly touched at all. 

Serious? You ask*? Why, not at all, though they've bandaged my 

head. 
And I don't think it fair at all, to keep me here in bed. 
With all those other poor chaps here, who're wrong up in their mind, 
When I'm all right and ought to be back on my driving grind; 
For Bleriay is calling me, and I'll just let him do 
Whate'er he wants along the road we take the wounded through. 
A thousand wounded heroes brave, are waiting for me there ; 
With none the fear I used to have, I'll cut back through the air. 

So to the surgeons speak a word, and tell them I'm all right. 

And that I ought to be sent back to where those heroes fight. 

For with those brave I want to be, to bear their wounded back, 

And Bleriay and I shall shoot across that deadly track, . . . 

Yes, bring the wounded heroes back, right through the flaming dirt. 

So please speak to the surgeons, sir, and tell them I'm not hurt. 

ON THE RUE DE RIVOLI 

I'm going to live in Paris, . . . Yvette, she asked me to; 
And she wasn't fooling either, for that's the way they do 
In this great magic city, where everyone's your friend. 
Regardless of the money you think you ought to spend. 

43 



ON THE BUE BE RIVOLI 



So it's Bal Tabarin and Moulin la Gallette, 
But get yourself a girl, like my raven-haired Yvette. 
Hup, . . . when this war is over, it's me for gay Paree, 
Where everybody's joyous, on the Rue de Rivolee. 

I do not mind the trenches, I do not mind the guns, 
I only think of Paris and wonder why the Huns 
Would ever start a rumpus with this loving Paris race, 
Who greet all like a brother; a smile from every face. 

I'm fighting for my country and for my sweet Yvette, 
My monthly pay is piling up, without a single debt, 
I'll spend it like a Croesus, when I get to gay Paree, 
And bring Yvette from Monmartre to the Rue de Rivolee. 

I never thought good nature could be an amulet. 

To make a suffering city its troubles all forget ; 

But there Yvette is singing a song of La Patrie, 

While picking up the plaintain leaves,* that fall in big Paree. 

lOh, Yvette, don't you worry ; I'm coming to Paree, 
And sit with you on Sundays in the Louvre big musee. 
How happy we'll be married in the Church of Saint Denis, 
With the wedding ring I've got picked out in the Rue de Rivolee. 



A MOTHER'S PRAYER 

Sleep, sleep, soldier, sleep; sleep on that distant shore. 
Dream, dream, a dream of home, that waits thee evermore. 
Do not awake till mom shall break; angels wait by thy side. 
Though unrevealed, stand as a shield. Peace with thee abide. 

Soft, soft, soldier, sleep, though sword be on thy breast. 
Fear not, slumber on, sweetly, softly rest. 

Night speeds away, soon 'twill be day, sleep then sweetly there. 
The angels still wait, and the angels are, . . . bom of thy mother's 
prayer. 

* For war time fuel. 

44 




But there Yvette is singing a song of La Patrie, . . . ." (Page 44.) 



OLD PIP 



TAKE THE ROOF FROM YOUR WORLD 

A soldier's war and a soldier's strife, 

A soldier's way and a soldier's life, 

But his guns shake the roof from his world; 

Man never beholds what heaven enfolds, 

While there's a roof to his world. 

A soldier's wound and a soldier's pain, 
A soldier's song and the bugle strain, 
And its call lifts the roof from his world 
We never shall hear that clarion clear, 
While there's a roof to our world. 

A challenging cry of dare to die, 
A soldier soul that mounts on high. 
Straight up from the floor of the world. 
And swiftly it flies to God's paradise, 
While slaves raise roofs to their world. 



OLD PIP 

(Observation Point) 

He looked into a periscope, and though a mile beyond. 
He saw two Heinies totin' off some water from a pond. 

"So good-bye, Fritz, and good-bye, Hans, I've got my eye on you, 
And got your distance and your range, to send my billet doux : 
Too bad, you haven't time to pray, too bad you're gone for good. 
But you'd serve me a pill the same, if in my boots you stood. 

"May be you've got a mother, perhaps a sweetheart too, 

Of course you'd been most happy, if , . . . the war was only through ; 

It will be in a minute, as far as you're concerned, 

Quick when you have my message, and the gun is on you turned. 

"So good-bye, Hans, and good-bye, Fritz, it's pretty hard on you. 

And pretty tough on all of us who've got to die or do ; 

But when I've sent you kiting in pieces to the sky, 

God will I know forgive me, when it comes my turn to die." 

So out he sang "Two, eight, 0. P.," and quick they shot the shell. 
That blew the two right off the map and dug their graves as well. 

45 



SUNNY FRANCE 



THE CROWN OF OLD GLORY 

A dream ; a sigh ; a tear ; a smile ; 
Come to my heart down memory's aisle, 
And each I seek to reconcile, 
As e'er they haunt my mind the while. 

A dream : but yet I know he's dead ; 
A sigh : brings not the life that's fled ; 
A tear : with grief my heart has bled ; 
A smile : Old Glory crowns his head. 



SUNNY FRANCE 

There's a land that's far away, and I'm gomg there to-day. 
Sunny France, Sunny France ; 

Though the smoke of war enclouds it and the battle gloom en- 
shrouds it, 
It is Smmy, Sunny France. 
For a century of war and all that men abhor, 
Can never cloud the sunshine in that land, 
For the sunshine beams from souls that love alone controls, 
And there's naught of hate their courage can't withstand. 

So Vive la France, the land of sun. 

And vive its men behind the gun ; 

For it's a union of faith and a union of lands, 

A communion of souls in a joining of hands; 

So here are our vows and here are our prayers. 

As we pledge our lives and our hopes to theirs. 



THE SAPPEUR POMPIER 

I've made a friend in Paris of a sapper pompiay. 
And we've gone the round of Paris from Boul. Mich to Elizay. 
For vestries or for slumming; for high life or for bumming. 
Just put a louis in your poche,* forget about the dammed boches, 



* Pocket. 

46 



THE SAPPEUR POMPIER 



And away, away, away, . . . with a sapper pompiay, 
Who's born and raised in Paris and knows it night and day, 
And every mass and cabaret he'll show you straight away, 
If he's like my friend the pompiay, who's bom in Paris gay. 

I met him first most natural in a cot beside my own, 

While curing of a slight mishap that put me short on bone. 

They marked us out together when they loosened up our tether, 

And minus just an arm was he, and I a leg above the knee; 

But away, away, away, my half-armed pompiay. 

Led me limping on my crutch, I wasn't used to much. 

And he showed me all the sights, and the Sainte Chapelle stained 

lights. 
Gee, how^ I hobbled all that day, with my friend the pompiay, 
I sure forgot about the war in the sights of Paris gay. 

'Twas all so very glorious, 'twas like a rainbow dream. 

And made the fussing of the war, all most unreal seem. 

We dined for two francs fifty, in a caf ay very nifty, 

And they served us like a king, with a bow for everything; 

And I shoved and crutched away, all that shining happy day, 

Till at night we both were standing in the church of Saint Gervais, 

So peaceful and so quiet that we both commenced to pray, 

And 1 saw the sapper drop a tear upon the altar grey. 



TAPS IN FRANCE 

Slumber on, slumber on, ... off duty forever; 
Thy Captain has summoned his soldiers together. 
We heard not the bugle assembling that band. 
Thou heardst it and answered it in that distant land. 

Peace at last, peace at last, ... no more war distressing; 
Thy soldier's life's ended in bright dawn of blessing. 
No more shalt thou battle, no more shalt thou fight. 
Thy racking death rattle heralded God's light. 

Sweetly sleep, sweetly sleep, . . . now done is the day, 

Thy mother weeps for you, at home far away. 

Thy duty's completed, thy furlough is won. 

By heaven's Song greeted, thy new life's begun. 

47 



OUE SEVENTY-FIVE 



OUR SEVENTY-FIVE 

The^ boom calibration, and boom triangulation, 

It's part of every song our "Rosie" sings; 
Orientation, . . . elevation, . . . with barrage in conflagration, 

Oh, the glory of a battery on its wings! 

I'm up on calibration, and I know triangulation, 

And our seventy-five is ready with a grin ; 
For we get the elevation with a smile of exultation. 

With our "Rosie," talking like a heroine. 

We know our ranger finding, all our optics precepts minding. 

And we figure like a counting-room machine, 
And "napoo" * any puzzle, in either breech or muzzle. 

That beats our mathematics sure and keen. 

So start the "doughs" advancing and we'll play our tune entrancing, 

That will hold the Fritzes like a trap of rats; 
So prod 'em with your bayonet, while you rush the top and gain it. 

And we'll shell 'em with a million tiger cats. 



THE ANGELUS IN FLANDERS 

I have seen those fields clad in gold and green, 
With the Angelus there from the hills, 

Its silver calling with tones enthralling. 
Far over the woodland rills. 

Now red is the stain that marks those fields. 
And loud from the hills the guns. 

In awful thunder, tear them asunder. 
To tombs that inhume our sons. 

But still we shall see that mantle of green, 

Again with the harvest of gold, 
The Angelus pealing, shall bring us kneeling, 

As again its message is told. 



From "II n'y a pas" ("there isn't"). 

48 



WAIT, WAIT, WAIT . . 



WAIT, WAIT, WAIT . . . 

It's wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . for an age interminate. 

And at rest, . . . rest, . . . rest, ... at a pace that drives you wild ; 

For your mind goes plunging madly, while your body's waiting sadly, 

In that wait, wait, wait, while "torps" * exasperate ; 

And it's wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . but don't retaliate; 

Just watch those bombs awobbling, whole companies agobbling, 

So wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . but don't retaliate. 

Wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, ... in a nervous woman state, 

Sit, squat, squirm, till you're gluey in the trench : 

Roil your stomach with tobacco, while the "riveters" f staccato. 

In that wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . that's marking time to hell. 

Oh, Lord, why can't we fight, when they're killing us at sight. 

While the "coal-box" t keep alobbing, and set our nerves athrobbing, 

While we wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . and can't retaliate. 

Wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . and try to calculate. 

If that wobbly bug above you will root you up on high ; 

And while you're busy guessing, a "Whistling Jimmy" § blessing 

Just blows your mates behind you in pieces to the sky. 

Oh, Lord, is this a fight or just an oversight? . . . 

Oh, I wonder, oh, I wonder, why in all this bloody thunder, 

We wait, . . . wait, . . . wait, . . . like a clod inanimate ! 



THE TWO TRANSPORTS 

In the harbor lay two transports, filled with troops of arm'd men, 
One had just returned from warfare, one was going back again ; 
One brought back the sick and wounded, one bore soldiers well and 

strong. 
One lay silent at its moorings, from the other came a song. 

"Going home to peace and plenty; leaving home for war and want; 
Coming home to love and loved ones; leaving home for spectres 

gaunt ; 
Coming home safe from the battle ; leaving home to laugh at death." 
Thus the song came o'er the waters as my fancy caught its breath. 

• Aerial torpedoes. 
t Machine gunners. 
t Shells. 
§ Howitzer shell. 

49 



JUST A GROAN FROM NO MAN'S LAND 

And I wondered as my fancy paused a moment with the song, 

On which boat were found the willing, with the wounded or the 

strong? 
And there then began a chorus, that from both accordant rose : 
"Triumph, triumph, ever triumph ; that is all the soldier knows." 



JUST A GROAN FROM NiO MAN'S LAND 

"When the battle is all over, and the tortured and the dead 
Are strewn about the trenches, oozing with its precious red, 
I feel a fear come on me (yet not the fear of death). 
That Fate's command, in No Man's Land, may hold my lingering 
breath. 

In just a groan from No Man's Land, 
And a groan from the shambles there. 
And a groan of life that calls for death, 
Like a call of hell's despair. 

When the battle's pulse is raging, I feel its savage thrill, 
And the fury of a demon gives me his frenzied will ; 
But when the guns are silenced and the land between is clear. 
With fear possessed and deep depressed, I see that welter near. 

And hear those groans from No Man's Land, 
And the groans from that shambles red. 
And the groans that call to the God of all, 
Half muffled 'neath the dead. 

A battle's just the living of a hundred lives a day. 
But in No Man's Land, each dying seems a thousand lives to pay. 
Ah, if then Death shall near me, I'll seize his spectre hand. 
That I may die without a sigh and escape that No Man's Land. 

And the groans from No Man's Land, 
And the prayers of the tortured there, 
And the cry that sounds from flowing wounds, 
In ghost calls through the air. 

50 



SALUTE THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

SALUTE THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

'Tenshun! Salute the man with the hoe, 

He's the commander-m-chief of us all ; 

There isn't a king who's got a thing, 

Or a bigger place in the sun, 

Than the man with the hoe, who makes things grow. 

While we're burning the world with the gun. 

Salute the man with the hoe ! 'Tenshun ! Front ! Salute ! 
For the man with the hoe is the first m command. 
Whether by water or whether by land. 
He's got our battles won, keeping us behind the gun ; 
And with his iron blade, we'll put him in parade; 
For it's hoe, hoe, hoe, for most the things that grow. 
And it's shoot, shoot, shoot, till we get the foreign foe; 
To make our harvest red, the gunners must be fed. 
So salute the man with the hoe ! 

Yes, it's the man with the hoe, who makes things grow, 
And the battle is won, not with the gun, 
But with the shiny edge of the hoe. 

L'envoi 

Take me to that cot on the hillside, 

With the ranging garden row ; 

You can have the rank and epaulettes, 

But I'll be the man with the hoe. 

I've got the highest medals. 

And the honors they bestow. 

But my heart is there, on the hillside where, 

I'll be just a man with a hoe. 

I know our "seventy-five" * by heart. 
And I love the ground it mauls. 
And many a time I've felt the thrills, 
That a soldier's life enthralls. 
But all the joy and ecstasy, 
(Of having a gun at play. 
Is nothing at all, when I recall, 
The fun of hoeing away. 



* Artillery piece. 

51 



SALUTE THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

I used to think it was drudgery, 

And I yearned for the brass and braid, 

And the martial bands in foreign lands. 

And the front of heroes made. 

But now I've stood the soldier tests 

And laughed at bursting shell. 

I hope the Lord will as reward, 

Bring me to heaven from hell. 

And give me that cot on the hillside. 

And the smiles of its garden row, 

In the warmth of the sun, by the clear water run, 

That only needs me and the hoe. 



And there from a window that looks toward the East, 

O'er the gleam of the tasseling corn. 

To the dance of the vine and the call of the pine, 

I shall look on the gold of each mom. 

On the gold that is mine on the couch of a queen. 

And the throne of the king of the fields; 

And out with his scepter (the hoe in my hands) 

I shall share in the bounty he yields. 



And the ferns and the roses and ripening grapes, 

They are mine with the tanager's flash; 

And the call of the thrush, in the sumac red brush. 

And the silvering wood of the ash. 

Which borders gold fields, where I reign with a queen, 

And her consort the King of the skies; 

They are mine with the song, that thrills the day long. 

Through the woods with their laughter and sighs. 



So give me that cot on the South-wind slope. 

With a window to East and to West; 

And there from the East, at a radiant feast, 

Mine eyes shall be nature's glad guest, 

And fill full my soul, each day new with youth. 

As the song of the lark o'er the nest; 

And when day is done, I shall God-speed the sun 

From that window that looks toward the West. 

52 



SWEET SPICE AND OINTMENT 



And bring then the candle by fresh kindled fire, 

Till the pitch stump shall dim its cool light, 

And the fragrance of pines, from their whispering lines, 

Shall perfume the fireplace bright. 

Let the nightingale now and the owl rule the night. 

While the oaks from their domes hush their call ; 

And the acorns and leaves, like rain on our eaves, 

Lull dreams that to-morrow enthrall. 

So give me that cot on the hillside. 

And the smiles from its garden row. 

In the warmth of the sun, by the clear water run, 

That only needs me and the hoe. 

To make it a Garden of Eden, 

With never a care nor a woe; 

All war would end, if God would but send, 

More men to work with the hoe. 



SWEET SPICE AND OINTMENT 

Sad at that lonely rock-hewn tomb, where never man was lain, 
At dawn of day, the women pray, to see His face again. 

Sweet spice and ointment for His clay, they tremblingly display : 
"He lies fast closed in sepulchre ; who'll roll the stone away V^ 

Then lo ! A light strikes through the gloom ; soft words their fears 

allay ; 
An angel bright, in glorious light, has rolled the stone away. 

The stone was rolled away, and with the dawning day. 

The prison broke, the spirit woke; the stone was rolled away. 

Then at the tomb, thy ointment bring, and there thy sweet spice lay. 
Till angels bright in morning's light shall roll the stone away. 

Thy sweet spice is thy very life, and ointment is thy clay. 
War is that tomb, but Peace shall come, and roll the stone away. 

53 



A HERO WITHOUT MENTION 



A HERO WITHOUT MENTION 

It seems 'twas like an age ago, we took the count and draft : . . . 

The language that was spoke in that cosmopoleetin' raft, 

Would made a Tower of Babel to the sky, sir. 

There were Gentiles ; there were Jews ; and from any land you choose ; 

And they came from every station, low and high, sir; 

But we took each man his place, without regardin' race, 

And we swore we'd all support the constitootion. 

An' there wasn't there a one, who looked as if he'd run, 

Away from our army institootion. 

Iky Blum and Pat O'Flynn; Joe Caruse and Nick Athin; 
Heinrich Hans and Gorge Pa-loi-dost-bad-kir, 
Ole Olsen, Jaques de Banne ; like that the names all ran, 
Adrafted in the army, . . . somewhat sad, sir. 

Well, all was very pacifist, till we reached the other land. 

And Red Cross ladies greeted us in charitable band. 

And gave us all some coffee with a stick, sir : 

Which was all very well, but it made us feel like, . . . well, 

That we simply couldn't get another lick, sir. 

But Pat O'Flynn reached out, when no lady was about. 

And hogged the bottle in a selfish manner, 

And then he turned around, and with a roarin' sound, 

He tried to sing the Star-bespangled Banner. 

Iky Blum and Scotty Neil, Joe Caruse and Nick Athin, 
Heinrich Hans and Gorge Pa-loi-dost-bad-kir, 
Ole Olsen, Jaques de Banne, then a protest strong began, 
Which made O'Flynn most fightin' furious mad, sir. 

So then O'Flynn threw off his coat and started in to fight, 

And first he knocked that Iky Blum a wallop with his right; 

The way he dropped two others was a crime, sir. 

A dozen he did smash, as here and there he'd dash. 

Till for his life I wouldn't have give a dime, sir. 

For twenty men or more just nailed him on the floor, 

And on O'Flynn, a score of fists were mauling. 

Till there came the Captain there, to stop the whole affair, 

And off O'Flynn they all did come acrawling. 

54 



A HERO WITHOUT MENTION 



Then up stood Pat O'Flynn, his blood arunnin' red, 
And quickly snapped salute and then most quiet said : 
"Will the Captain let me make a shorht remar-k, sor? 
They're traitors and they're spies, an' agin all us allies, 
An' they're workin' gin the glor-eeus flag in dar-k, sor, 
For whin I stharted there, to sing a patriot air. 
They jumped on me, a lot of Kaiser dancers : 
Just call the roll by name, an' yerself will see the same. 
That mine's . . . the only 'Murican name that answers." 

'Twas summary for all the lads, including Patrick, too. 

But 'fore the trial, the order came to push us on and through, 

To where the French were struggling on the line, sir. 

An' when we got in sight of where we were to fight, 

We all forgot that we might get a fine, sir. 

An' quick we started in to the scrappin' thick and thin, 

Till live and dead we tumbled in a crater; 

A cut off from the line, a lot of bloody swine. 

With hardly strength enough to peel a 'tater. 

For we hadn't any biscuit and we hadn't any stew. 
And we hadn't any water, as we weltered in that slew, 
And 'round us raged the barrage like a flame, sir; 
When up piped Pat O'Flynn, above the roarin' din : 
"Sthay where ye are, whoile I'm me bearin's takin'," 
And out the hole he piles, with his face all grins and smiles, 
While we thought 'twas all "tootfinny" * with his bacon. 

It was an awful night we passed, till back comes Pat O'Flynn, 

Adraggin' Prussian grub he'd nabbed, and water in a tin, 

And none there was, who didn't bolt his snack, sir. 

Then Pat said that we had a luck most joyous glad, 

For we were where 'twas fine to make attack, sir. 

Against a Prussian gun, that we'd grab with rush and run. 

And wait until our troops would come advancin'. 

An' he told each what to do, so we rushed the Krouthead crew, 

An' got their gun in manner most entrancin'. 

An' then we turned the gun around and blazed the Heinies dead. 
An' all the time O'Flynn was there abossm' at our head, 
Until our troops came up to fill the place, sir. 
An' then a young shavetail f was put on the detail, 

* Soldier adaptation of "tout flni" ("all over"), 
t New second lieutenant. 

55 



A HERO WITHOUT MENTION 



An' he never didn't ask who led the chase, sir. 

Then Pat went back to ranks without a word of thanks, 

Though he at least was 'titled to a menshun. 

An' he grinned along the same, answerin' to his name, 

Though in the squad he had our strict attention. 

Iky Blum and Scotty Neil; Joe Caruse and Nick Athin, 
Heinrich Hans and Gorge Pa-loi-dost-bad-kir, 
Ole Olsen, Jaques de Banne, were all for him to a man. 
Which made ,0'Flynn most mighty kind and glad, sir. 

Well, quite a while went on, until one day a shell. 

Plugged Pat and me the luckiest, I ever did hear tell. 

For it merely put us in the base a month, sir. 

And while they cured us there, I asked Pat, good and fair, 

Why he didn't for his braveiy something seek, sir. 

And Pat commenced to roar and laughed till he was sore 

Then very confidential told me, 

"In Kilkenny was I born, an' I'm just a lad forlorn, 

With nothin' but me Irish bluff to hold me. 

Ivery toime I take a drink, I want to start a f oight, 

An' all the hivinly angels couldn't put me roight," 

Just like that did he to me confide, sir ; 

"Were I an afficer to be, it would be just like a spree, 

Ashowin' me political promoshun; 

Soon I'd get it in the neck, an' of me they'd make a wreck, 

As they did whin I stole the Rid Cross lotion.'' 

We left the base and to the firing line went back, . . . 

And the first man down was . . . Pat O'Flynn, in a bloody night 

attack ; 
But he wobbled to his knees and smiled, sir. 
When I pulled him in the trench and tried his blood to quench, 
As the firing got a little bit less wild, sir. 
There in my arms he died, . . . and Blum and I both sighed, 
For just we two were left alone surviving, 
And in a shell-made cave, we found for him a grave. 
While up to God his Irish soul went striving. 

And Iky Blum knelt down and prayed, and I prayed with him there; 
Iky prayed in Yiddish, but I understood his prayer; 
For a prayer is something all can understand, sir. 

56 



ON THE LOVELY LYS 



It may seem strange to you, a Catholic and a Jew, 
Could pray together at the Lord's command, sir; 
But by Pat's lifeless clay an angel seemed to say : 
"0 men of every faith, bring here your choicest flower; 
For here a man was slain, of humble soldier name, 
But a hero till the final ending hour." 



ON THE LOVELY LYS 

Where the lovely Lys was flowing. 
South winds their flowers strowing. 
There was once a city fair. 
My own sweet Armentieres; 
But the river's grace has wandered. 
And its charms are all asundered, 
With the war that on it thundered. 
On those scenes that were so rare. 

Ah, for me there's no forgetting. 
That wondrous charm and setting. 
Though the gunners still are fretting, 
With their shells upon the town; 
For I know the waters gather. 
In the farthest mountain heather, 
To bring those joys together, 
That now are distant flown. 

So I do not hear the weeping, 
Nor the groaning wounded, sleeping, 
'Neath the noise and cannon glare. 
Of my own Armentieres; 
For by the ruins heaping, 
I see those harvests reaping. 
Their russet gold in keeping, 
With the Artois sunshine there. 

For I know the guns can never 
Blaze o'er those fields forever. 
While God above is there, 
By my own Armentieres; 

57 



THE TRENCHER'S GLEAMING KNIFE 

And in all this desolation, 
There's a thought of exultation, 
That fills me with elation, 
'Midst the burning ruins there. 

And by Saint Vaast torn tower. 
Upon which cannon glower, 
My soul goes up in prayer, 
For my brave Armentieres; 
And as my prayer is voicing, 
I look up glad rejoicing, 
And see the charms arising. 
To replace the ruins there. 



THE TRENCHER'S GLEAMING KNIFE 

Oh, sing about your sabers and boast about your swords, 

And yam about your rifles that split a house to boards, 

And talk about your bayonet and about your pocket bomb, 

And hand grenades of various grades that knock the Fritzes plumb, 

And when you get through talking, I'll never say a word, 

But I'll take my little trenchin' knife and pet it like a bird. 

Heigh ho, where is your martial joy"? 

Every man's a puppet, every gun's a toy, 

The only thing that makes a man feel like a soldier bold, 

Is the trenchin' knife strapped to the arm. 

With an edge that's sharp and cold. 

Make a front of machine gunners, mixed in with rifle men, 
Throw in a thousand marksmen, and a thousand then again, 
Of bombardiers and grenadiers and one-pound gun reserves. 
With their pioneers and engineers, all with their tactic curves ; 
Bat number me among the men who've got the trenchin' knife. 
For they're the boys, who got the chance at real soldier strife. 

Ha, ha, . . . we're ready now, b'gosh, 

Even single handed, against a dozen boches, 

For we've got the arm that makes a man feel like a soldier bold ; 

It's "Jake," * the knife strapped to the arm. 

With an edge that's sharp and cold. 



From "chic"; a general expression of soldier approbation. 

58 



NO BATE IN THE TRENCHES 



When they call a spell from action to grab our grub and gnaw, 
The gun men eat with armament, strapped to their shoulders raw. 
But the knife man takes his trusty from out its pretty sheath, 
And carves and eats most delicate, with time to pick his teeth. 
With that same trusty weapon, that he wipes all clean and new, 
And then he flops upon the ground and dreams what next he'll do. 

Hump, hump . . . while gunners swear and chafe, 

While they wiggle in their harness and wonder if it's safe. 

While the knife man has his vittels all digesting in their place, 

An' takes his pipe and dreams and smokes 

With a happy, solemn face. 



NO HATE IN THE TRENCHES 

Preach not to us a war of hate. 

We, who go forth, with Death our mate; 

If thou wouldst know the reason why, 

We gladly suffer, gladly die. 

Then join us in that No Man's Land, 

And with us raise to God, your hand. 

Because our country bids, we fight, . . . 
And 'tis our country, wrong or right, 
Whose love in us is first of all, 
As we die calmly at her call. 
No need to urge us on with hate. 
When nobler thought shall actuate. 

Then if you'd reach the soldier's heart. 
Think not of him, of Hate a part. 
But think of him as one who dies, 
In love of country's sacrifice. 
Oh, can you not forget hell's hate, 
When we our lives so dedicate? 

You reek of hatred with your pen, 
While just for love a thousand men 
Fall dying in this carnage great; 
And never one calls out in hate. 
While you safe there in native land, 
Curse uselessly the foeman's baud. 

59 



THE LITTLE HUN CHILDREN 



If thou then well wouldst do thy part, 
Put first all hatred from thy heart; 
And let the love for thine own shore, 
Be first and last forevermore; 
And calmly pray to God above, 
With less of hate and more of love. 



THE LITTLE HUN CHILDREN 

By his mother^s side in kneeling. 
With a voice so sweet with feeling, 

A wondering, tiny boy, murmured his nightly prayer, 
And his darling lips were trembling, 
For that day he'd seen assembling, 

The soldiers in their march to leave their country fair. 

And he'd heard the awful story. 

Of the bloody warfare gory, 
And his big blue eyes were deep filled with affright; 

And he heard the bugles shrilling. 

And saw the ranks fast filling, 
And heard them tramping off the foe to fight. 

But yet his voice grew stronger, 

As the accents lingered longer: 
"Oh, Lord, please bless the little Hun children, 

For their fathers are so wrathful. 

That they killed their God with shrapnel. 
And so, dear God, I pray to you for them." 



THE SCHUTZENGRABENVERNICHTANGAUTOMOBILE; OR, 
A JOY-RIDE WITH MAGGIE 

'Twas Maggie that we called her, that juggernaut of car, 
When first we overhauled her, on her perpendicular; 
And Maggie's cylinders were big, and her gearing was immense. 
And when we got her all in rig, she shook with vehemence. 

60 



A JOY-RIDE WITH MAGGIE 



"Ha, ha/' laughed Bill, as he geared up, "We've got the boches at 

last," 
While Maggie dove and then reared up, and o'er a capem passed. 
"Just let our Maggie take her pace; just let her gentle spin; 
And she will soon be in first place, that voyage to Berlin." 

For Maggie, though made of iron, is a hippopotamus 
(And you can give the lie on, just what she thought of us) ; 
But spite of that, we loved our Mag, and kept her fed with gas ; 
Awaiting for the time to lag, till something came to pass. 

At last there came the orders, and out our Maggie went, 

And dug beyond the borders, before we got a dent ; 

And though they pounded at us strong, our Maggie's armor plate, 

Just passed their hea^'y shots along, while she kept up her gait. 

Now Maggie, when she's working, puts a boiler-mill to shame, 
On the noises that are jerking from out her massive frame; 
So when the gunners call to us, they have to bust our ear, 
Whenever they've a mind to change the running of the gear. 

Well, Maggie was a wise one, and thought she'd turn a trick, 
Just when we started rising up from a wallow thick ; 
So when the gunners yelled, "Slow down," our Maggie made a row, 
That would have raised the dead around, as she nosed like a plow. 

So then the gunners made motion for our Maggie to stand still ; 
For in that locomotion they couldn't show their skill ; 
But from a crater's hanging lip, our Maggie in her plunge, 
Made both the gunners lose their grip, in one mad downward lunge. 

So then we gave her a spurring, that made her groan and shriek. 
And with her motor whirring, we clawed across a creek ; 
While the gunners damned us awesome and we damned Maggie, too. 
As like a glacier, she slowed down, . . . right toward a Prussian 
crew. 

Their guns were now asmashing, so close we got their fume, 
While Maggie seemed acrashing, our souls to certain doom; 
Till all at once she gave a shake, as if she had the jumps, 
And with an awful roaring quake, down on that crew she humps. 

61 



SAY, FELLOW, TRY TO WAKE 



Upon four Huns her nose was, her jaws held six more fast; 

Her caterpillar toes was where twenty Teuts breathed last ; 

So our gunners grinned and banged with glee, and poured their "one 

pounds" out. 
And soon the Heinies cried, "Merci," with their dead all strewn about. 

So everybody got mention, except poor Maggie dear. 
Though she didn't lack attention, nor care from plant to gear; 
And when we were all back again and dainty oiled her maw 
"We all agreed to change her name to "Sweet Victoriaw." 



SAY, FELLOW, TRY TO WAKE 

Say, fellow, try to wake ; I've toted ye a mile. 

This first-aid botchin' on my arm, rasps in me like a file; 

But I could not leave ye, gas-upped there, for the shells to dig yer 

grave, 
For ye looked as if 'twas worth the chance, your life to try to save. 

Say, fellow, try to wake; I've got to put ye down, 

(To give my tourniquet a twist, an' wrench it back aroun', . . . 

There, . . . now I scarcely leak a drop, though I've lost a barrel of 

blood. 
An' if I'd still kept leakin' on, we'd both be dead in mud. 

Say, fellow, try to wake ; for I need your pair of eyes, 
To help me round these craters and look out otherwise. 
Gee, but it seems yer made of lead, but if you'd only wake, 
A word or two would help a lot, from me the heft to take. 

Say, fellow, won't ye wake? I guess we're half way there; 
The post reserve must be behind that line of rocket glare, 
An' as for dodgin' past those shells, by gum, we'll have to crawl. 
If we ever hope to save what's left of our busted spleens an' all. 

Say, fellow, won't ye wake? I've got to have advice ; 
If I was just alone myself, I'd make that shell run nice ; 
But with you there upon my back, 'twill take all night to go ; 
60 speak and cheer me up a bit ; 'twill help a lot, ye know. 

62 



SAY, FELLOW, TRY TO WAKE 



Say, fellow, won't ye wake? . . . We've got to rest again, 
Although it ain't a lovely place right in this shrapnel rain, 
Gee, fellow, don't ye hear those shells asmashin' round ? 
Don't see how ye can sleep on, in all this hellish sound. 

Say, fellow, won't ye wake? My eyes are full of mud. 
So wake and look ahead for me and point me out the road; 
I know yer mighty sleepy, with the gas and dodgin' Huns, 
But now it is a job for two, to get back from the guns. 

Say, fellow, try to wake ; it's gettin' worse and worse, 
An' flounderin' in the mud like this, I'm just a walkin' hearse ; 
I say, fellow, crack me a joke, and try to make me smile, 
By gad, this drag will get me, with still to go a mile. 

Say, fellow, try to wake. Hurrup. . . . Gol dam it all, 
I knew 'twas comin' soon, that ten foot drop and fall. 
Well, we'll sit here all cosy like, right in this gunner's glare, 
An' watch their doings from this hole. . . . Hey, why ye got that 
stare? 



Why, fellow, yer awake ; yer eyes are open wide. 
That tumble sure did drive away the gas from out yer hide. . . . 
What, there's a hole right through yer head ! My God ! He's dead 
as stone; 

Lord, ... it wasn't then the gas that dropped him there alone. 

Yes, fellow, you've woke up ; but not to blood and war, 

For the smile upon yer lips shows that ye've gone afar; 

To where the angels' songs are sung, where all is peaceful grand. 

While like a driven rat I crawl through mud in No Man's Land. 

Yes, fellow, . . . you've woke up ; so say a prayer for me ; 
An' say a prayer for them at home, perhaps I'll never see. 
To bring you dead an' lay you here, a bloody mile we came. 

1 know you'll say a prayer for me, though I'll never know yer name. 



63 



THE CHATEAU FOUNTAIN 



THE CHATEAU FOUNTAIN 

There's a chateau by the trenches; it stands upon a hill, 

With a balustrade of marble and a splashing fountain rill, 

And the waters still are calling-, though the folks have moved away. 

And it always calls the louder when the guns have stopped their play. 

I 'spose the little children used to 'round that fountain play, 
And sail their little boats and rafts on every summer day ; 
But the little children now are gone, and the fountam's all alone, 
Except when soldiers rush for drmk from out the basin stone. 

For the guns go thundering East and West, and thunder loud and 

long, 
But in that din the little fount keeps up its haunting song, 
"Oh, bring me back the children, oh, bring them back to play, 
Oh, let me have the children back," is what it seems to say. 

The grassy slope that once was gay with beds of flowers rare, 
Is just a mass of reddened earth, that's hard and torn and bare ; 
There's hardly now a single tree, that isn't shelled and stripped. 
The chateau gapes with yawning holes, where shells have through it 
ripped. 

No one would think that in that scene so grimly desolate. 
That little children could have played about that garden gate. 
I know it's so, for the fountain calls, and calls them all the day, 
"Oh, bring me back the children ! Oh, bring them back to play." 

Last night I made a rush up there, to fetch some water back. 
And as I crawled along the hill, the gunners in attack. 
Plowed through the rums, dangerous near, that little fountain there; 
So I laid do^vn along its wall; to return I didn't dare. 

And all that night the fountain called the children gone away, 
"Oh, bring me back the children, who here were wont to play." 
And with the calling of the song, I couldn't help but pray, 
"Oh, Lord, bring back those little ones and drive this war away.'* 

64 



THE SABRE OF MY DREAM 



THE SABRE OF MY DREAM 

When just a boy I used to dream I was a soldier brave, 
And through each dream I'd see the gleam, as swords would brightly 
wave. 

I used to dream of what I'd do, if back from war I came, 

And dreamed I'd take my sabre true and call it some fond name. 

And hang it then upon the wall, where all who came could see. 
While I my bravery would recall, and brag tremendously. 

But here in France, I've learned enough to know my dream's not 

true, 
And that the sword and sabre stuff aren't made for me and you. 

An' that I've got to substitute some other thing for swords. 
And what is liable to suit is what me now disturbs. 

Sometimes I think my vitriol spray is just the bloomin' thing. 
To take admirin' breath away, as of its praise I sing. 

But though it is of wondrous make and killed full many a Hun, 
It just looks like some rusty fake or common bam squirt gun. 

My flame projector, I, of course, could hang upon the wall. 
And on its uses wide descant, in words that would enthrall ; 

But it's so clumsy in its form, 'twould fill a fireplace. 
For it's not made just to adom a parlor's dainty space. 

'Tis true that I could hang upright my gas-mask on a hook, 
But in the night 'twould look a fright, and for a ghost be took. 

Or just a single hand-grenade, would look well (hung with care). 
If there was never cleaning made along the molding there. 

So after all, the thing that best will take the place of sword. 
Is just this medal on my chest, and my helmet with its cord. 

65 



THE LAND THAT KNOWS NO WAB 



THE LAND THAT KNOWS NO WAR 

In quiet peace together, by the fireside cheerful glow, 
There sat a white-haired couple ; he was reading to her low, 
The daily journal tidings, all about our soldier boys. 
In foreign line of trenches, far away from family joys. 

And as he read, the mother sighed and closed her eyes to pray. 
For her son was a soldier on that Front so far away ; 
That day she'd got a letter, telling how he'd safe arrived. 
Well, strong and glad; at last in France; for very joy she cried. 

His regiment was ordered out to take its sector post. 
And learn the art of warfare there, amid the allied host. 
She pressed the letter fondly as she held it in her hand, 
And prayed that God might spare her son, there "somewhere," in that 
land. 

The father gently read the while, in low and anxious tone, 
Till all at once he faltered and then stifled just one groan ; 
But quickly he recovered and then very calmly said : 
"Mary, my wife, I'm ill to-night, ... I think I'll go to bed." 

He took the paper quickly and he folded it away, 
And trembled as he kissed his wife, without a word to say ; 
For in that paper he had read how his brave boy had died, 
Among the first to give his life, . . . their boy, their hope, their 
pride. 

And with his brain all reeling round, he looked back at his wife; 
Her eyes were closed in silent prayer for her dear Harry's life ; 
The tears coursed swiftly down her cheeks, as still she prayed to God, 
Not knowing that her soldier boy, . . . was dead beneath the sod. 

To keep the dreadful news from her was his e'er watchful care. 
He knew 'twould kill her surely, if she found he'd fallen there ; 
So with his double burden, thus for both he grieved their son, 
With constant care, lest to her there, the fatal news should come. 

And oft he'd forge a letter telling of some incident. 

With thanks for some home comfort, that to him she thought was 

sent. 
Or asking her to knit a vest, and penned with lines so dear. 
Thus long the father watched the wife, and hid from her each tear. 

66 



THE LAND THAT KNOWS NO WAR 

The weary clays spun heavy on, so sad for him alone, 
With all the burden of his care, but smiles to hide each groan ; 
Each night they prayed together, prayed each one a separate prayer. 
But which were both together joined in God's own chorus there. 

"Oh, keep my boy, our only joy, . . . strong, brave, ... to serv^e his 

land, 
Oh, keep him ever safe from harm; save him with guiding hand; 
Oh, keep him safe and bring him back, oh, bring him home to me, 
Lord, hasten then, that day of Peace, when home my boy I'll see." 

And thus she prayed in sorrow sad, with eyes deep filled with faith, 
While low he prayed as in his mind, he saw his son's veiled wraith : 
''lOh, God, the Father of all good : the Father of our host, 
Oh, bless the mother of that boy, we love and cherish most." 

"Bless her, the mother of our boy, and for her sacrifice ; 
Oh, bless her for her willing spirit and let Thy love suffice ; 
God keep her strong and brave and like the gallant son she bore ; 
Thine the power. Thine the will; yes. Thine forevermore." 

Upon his forehead anguish plowed its ruthless furrows deep ; 
But still the father struggled on, from her the word to keep. 
Oh, how he trembled when he heard her prayers for Peace to come ; 
For then he knew the secret held, . . . with peace would be imdone. 

Dissembling then, no longer could prove sorrow's gracious shield. 

For with the troops returning, could no longer truth be sealed, 

And she would know the tidings then, . . . how he had long been 

slain. 
And that his grave was in a ditch, with thousand others lain. 

So thus he pondered sadly, with the burden of his grief, 

Till hail ! There came that far-off call, that God sends in relief. 

And there upon his bed of death and when the end was near. 

He prayed to God above while she, . . . held him close to her dear. 

"0 God, the Father of our life : the Father of our love, 
Take me to Thy own land and to thy joyous peace above. 
O take me to our soldier true, our fallen hero brave : . . . 
Ah, there I hear him call to me : his hands in welcome wave." 

67 



THOSE LAST HOUBS OF THE WATCH 

The mother deep bewildered then, . . . the tidings knew at last ; 
Her heart all torn Avith anguish deep, by him she stood aghast ; 
She fell upon his pillow and both heard that call afar, . . . 
Their soldier came to guide them, to that land that knows no war. 



THOSE LAST HOURS OF THE WATCH 

Grim Death ! I fear thee not, yet wait thy call. 

Why should I dread when no escape avails'? 

Has Fear then ever saved one soul from thee ? 

We fear that most which we least know. 

But thou, lO Death ! We know thee well. 

Thou com'st at night, out from the mountain depth, 

And blacker still than night itself, thou stalk'st down through 

The silent flowered vale, clouded by fear of thee. 

And on each beaded brow, thy leaden breath is felt. 

No spot so lonely in the desert wilds, but what 

Thy sentinel there stands fast, his mantle fluttering in the shades, 

Of blackest night or gleaming in the break of rosy dawm, 

But with its slightest touch comes silence and the end. 

Thou lurkest in the golden cup, and in the chalice of the perfumed 

flower 
Thy poison subtly lies. 
On mountain peaks, o'er trackless plains, 
In fragrant dells, by silvered lakes. 

In verdant woods and radiant meads, o'er all, ... in all, 
Art thou, Oh Death ! . . . save in the heart that filled with hope, 
Unfailing looks beyond thy shadowed form and bravely feels, 
That there is life beyond thy reach ; 
And in the altar of that heart, 
A fire bums beyond thy power to quench ; 
The fire of devotion true to home and native land, 
The fire in a soldier's heart, that still burns on. 
When barrage fiercest flames are smothered in the universal dust of 

time. 

Thus, Death, ... a soldier's heart shall ever challenge thee. 
Wherever thou may'st be, and I shall hear the bugle call of life, 
E'en in the thundering roar of guns, that break the very sky. 

68 



ACROSS THE OCEAN DREAMING 



ACROSS THE OCEAN DREAMING 

My mind goes far across the ocean dreaming, 

Beyond the watery waste where sets the sun ; 
Towards Gates of Gold, whose purple arches gleaming, 

Shines back to where my night is now begun; 
Gleam back ablaze, a pageant textured glory. 

Where thou, my love, pine tearfully for me, 
And even in war's welter, the old story 

Brings back the yearning of my heart for thee. 

The colored pageant of my sky is fading. 

But never shall my love, dear, wane for thee; 
The darkened watch, soon over all pervading, 

Can never hide our love's sweet sympathy; 
The barrage flame, our hidden line menacing. 

Can never bum thee, dear one, from my heart ; 
Back o'er the sea of dangers wild harassing. 

I'll come again and never from thee part. 

So pray to God that I may have some glory, 

Some laurels won, to offer at thy feet; 
Some chance to make a fitting soldier story. 

That when I come, may make my welcome sweet; 
Just something that may show I'm fit to love thee. 

Just something that may make thee proud of me, 
Just something that may make the heaven above thee, 

As fit for me, as it is fit for thee. 



THE WAY TO VICTORY 

The sun is setting and lurid is the air. 

As on the texture of the sky, a hand unseen, 

Paints pictures of the world beyond. 

The sun is setting : Its colors warmer glow. 

And silver turns to burnished gold. 

That builds a wall with radiant gems agleam. 

69 



THE WHEEL OF LIFE, , . , AND WAE 

vision glorious ! How must the beauty seem, 

To those who full behold the semblance unbedimmed, 

While we on earth but see the reverse counterpart. 

man insensate ! Cowering in these quaking caves, 

To madly master tricks of war, when on the sky God pens a message, 

That shows the way to victory. 



THE WHEEL OF LIFE, . . . AND WAR 

We met as joyous turned the Wheel of Life; 

My hand held fast to thine ; together brought too late, . . . 
For far away, they called me to the strife. 

Away to hate, when love it was I sought. 
But in our last farewell, your courage spoke, 
And to the patriot aim my own awoke. 

And evermore. Alas! had we but met before. 

Had we but met when all the world was free 

From war, with peace like morning fresh. 
With every hour fragrant, a garland each to me, 

Before this monster war had crushed me, soul and.flesh ! 
Ah, had we then but met, now both would happy be. 
Had we but only met, when we from war were free ! 

But nevermore. Alas! had we but met before! 

War came and then the seasons touched their hands. 

Farewell to all our summei^s promised bliss; 
Farewell to flowered days in peaceful lands; 

The sun sinks low, in winter's dead abyss. 
Let Sirius gleam upon this blood-stained snow. 
To which my heart now adds its crimson flow. 

And gone forevermore, our happy days of yore. 

The poplars and the aspen, shell-torn, weird. 

Are quivering where red waters flow. 
And from the North the wind has quickly veered, 

To lash upon my cheek its winter snow; 
The blast of ice, where you your kisses gave, 
And blood-stamed moss to line my soldier's grave ; 

Here winter evermore, . . . far from your flowered shore. 

70 



AH, MON CAPITAINE 



I go from thee, beloved, and thy land, 

Agleam with woman's virtue such as thine, 

Where life flows richly by the golden strand, 
And men courageous bow to law divine. 

Thy land, my land ; our home for which I die. 

Whose broad ways, now, ... I, dying, still descry ; 
My land from shore to shore, forever, ever more. 



Grieve not ! Our meeting was thus timed by fate. 
When war clouds dimmed love's dawning glow 

Of that day which, ah, comes too late, 

And now whose noon-tide you alone shall know. 

But seek me out in lonely aisles amid the slain. 

And softly call, . . . where there my clay is lain, . . . 
And evermore I'll dream, ... as if we'd met before. 



AH, MON CAPITAINE 

The ways are shining brightly in La Nouvelle Orleans ; 
And for you, mon Capitaine, just for you, 

Languid eyes are kindled bright. 

Gracious smiles, with fond delight. 
Are for you, mon Capitaine, all for you. 
Forgotten is the blood and the thunder of the war, 
Forgotten is the wound so lightly healed. 
In the showing of your skill, to our awkward conscript drill, 
Where your presence brings a thrill, mon Capitaine. 



The guns are blazing mighty on the sectors of Verdun, 
And for you, mon Capitaine, for you, too. 

On the trenches winter mud. 

Falls the torrent of your blood, 
Bleeds anew, mon Capitaine, old wound with new. 
Now remembered is the song and the brilliant, gracious throng. 
Now remembered are her eyes, moist with adieu, 
With the memory of those days, calmly on grim Death you gaze. 
While for you her prayer is raised, mon Capitaine. 

71 



SANFAIRYANN 



SANF AIRY ANN * 

The war is long, the struggle fierce, and filled with groaning care. 
And dvery day's a new suspense, with life hung by a hair; 
But all my disappointments keen, though hopeless black they be, 
Are quick forgot, in that sweet thought : 
She waits at home for me. 

I know she counts the dragging time that keeps us both apart. 
I know how all this bloody war weighs heavy on her heart. 
I know that every hour her prayer comes winging 'cross the sea. 
So back I'll send my love to where 
She's waiting there for me. 

And home with Peace, and her at last, there by our fireside, 
We'll both forget the dangers past, and all that War's denied. 
A thousand kisses on her brow, when then from War we're free, 
Guns fill the sky, but what care I? . . . 
When she waits home for me. 



A WHIM OF DEATH 

There was a big six-footer and in every inch a man 

(He was a college graduate, so company gossip ran), 

I know he was a brave one, for he was one of three, 

Who hustled out beyond the wire and cut a passage free. 

He always talked of dying and dying in his boots. 

And measured his percentage with everything that shoots; 

He talked so wild about his death that we commenced to joke. 

When he was writing "in case" notes back to his home and folk. 

Well, when our company was reduced to just a beggar's score. 
They pulled us back to billet safe, far from the battle's roar. 
And put us in a village and in a cosy barn. 
With hay and straw (all we could use) and quilts of worsted yarn 

And right away, that college man commenced to talk Fransay, 
And called Madame, the farmer's wife, to bring him on a tray 
Some water hot and soap and cloth ; and he commenced to wash, 



* From "Cela ne fait rien," soldier expression of indifference. 

72 



A WHIM OF DEATH 



And shaved and changed and made himself another man, by gosh ; 

And looked more like an officer than just a 'listed lad, 

And laughed and joked and grinned and sung; he was so mighty 



"Ha, ha, you fellows, here 1 am ; they'll never get me now. 
For now that I've been through the mill, my life is charmed, I vow. 
lO Lord, you'll never know, my lads, how scared I've always been, 
In all that blood and gas and hell, that you and I have seen. 
But now I know my life is charaied and that I'll never die. 
Until when old in natural time, upon my bed I lie." 

And then he fell to cleaning up his corner in the loft. 
And fixed it all up, woman-like, and made his bed up soft. 
And then he said he'd had enough of all them fleas and bugs 
(Which was quite free, I must confess, about our bedding rugs) ; 
So then he takes his insect chalk and down the ladder bounds. 
To go and drive "the crawlers" out, and as he grabs the rounds, 
Bim, . . . cr-ack, ... and down that fellow goes, head foremost on 

his neck. 
And struck against the hard stone wall, a limp and lifeless wreck. 

And, when that night we buried him, the sergeant quiet says : 

"It is a pity that he's gone, that ended are his days ; 

'Tis sad, my boys, for he was brave as ever man could be. 

He wa'n't afeered of shrapnel, no, . . . but died 'fraid of a flea." 



HE IS OUR SOLDIER 

He is our soldier; God's chosen tool; 

He serves while we but stand and wait. 

And bridges with his courage, our emptiness of fear. 

He is our soldier ; his days are hinged 
Upon the clarion tone of bugle calls, 
Whose echo opens wide the golden gates of glory. 

73 



THREE WARS: ONE FLAG 



THREE WARS: ONE FLAG 

Good-morning, Colonel : It is you, who can, I know. 
Give me the clue to where I'll find our soldier boy; 

Pve just been hunting for his transport, high and low. 
Excuse me, please, ... if I thus seem to you annoy. 

Yes, . . . Thanks. I will sit down, for these old joints and bones 
Get purty stiff and tired now; ain't like I was. 

When way back there, in "sixty-one," we left our homes, 
To fight those men, so brave and true, in their lost cause. 

Yes, that is now a lifetime off, ... an age ago. 

That I went out a youngster, full of pep, and game ; 

And four years after, came back, well, I guess you know, . . . 
One leg, ... it wa'n't so bad, when Ma . . . took me the same. 

For years I suffered hellish torment for that lim'. 

And when Ma'd see me trembling with the torturing pain, 

Vd hear her say in voice so sweet, her dear eyes dim : 
"Oh, Lord ! I pray that war shall never come again." 

As happy as the birds were we, . . . Hill "ninety-eight" : 
Our only boy, our Jim, went out to 'venge the Maine ; 

A boy who'd never had a thought of foe or hate ; 

And then Ma sobbed and prayed, for war had come again. 

With us he left his noble wife and baby son. 

I see him yet as on that final, farewell day, 
He held them both a moment 'fore he took his gun. 

And in a month, ... he fell, ... in far-off El Caney. 

It killed his martyred wife, . . . the baby lived and grew. 
And in our hearts he cured the pangs of grief and pain ; 

And as he grew, I'd hear my wife, in prayers true : 
"Oh, Lord ! I pray, that war shall never come again." 

And oh, those glorious years of peace that then did rule. 

The boy gi^ew up, just like his pa, big, brave and strong; 
The first in evei^thmg he did, in sport or school. 

And first man in his college class, . . . till war came on. 

74 



THREE WARS: ONE FLAG 



And then again my dear wife prayed to Heaven above : 
"0 spare this boy ; he's all we have," is how she'd pray : 

For 'spite of all our prayers and pleas and love, . . . 

The war had come again. , . . We blessed him on his way. 

Well, in the camp they made a flying man of him ; 

And when he sailed to France to aviate the Front, 
Ma cried, but I felt like I'd jig on my old lim', 

For proud I was to feel that he could stand war's brunt. 

It's eight months now he's gone, and I was notified, 

That he was wounded and was granted sick man's leave; 

And Ma is worried nigh to death (eight months she's cried), 
And so, I run down here, for fear to death she'd grieve. 

His name? The airman, Charlie Cook. You know him, . . . sure; 

Among the first to fly the lines against the foe; 
Among the first to serve the airman's foreign tour; 

And slightly wounded, so he wrote, ... a month ago. 

Yes, Charlie Cook, . . . twice son to us. A husky chap, 

Though none the rest here seem to know his name : 'tis queer, 

For when I asked and said I was his grand-dad Pop, 

They sort of whispered to themselves, . . . and sent me here. 

We haven't heard a word from him since when he wrote. 

And said he had a leave for home; he's back, I know. . . . 

His Grandma's mighty sick, so I just took the boat. 

And came up here to see. . . . My wife, she wants him so. . . . 

Wants him back home, . . . for she is failing mighty fast. 
And calling all the time her boy, . . . wanting him to come, 

And every time she asks, I fear it is the last, 

And me just standing helpless there, achoking dumb. 

But when she's gone, I still will have my Charlie left. 

We'll talk about our soldier days, . . . many years apart, 
And mebbe, I can bear along the burdening heft. 

When she is gone, by keeping Charlie in my heart. 

So, sir, I hope for Martha's sake, they've brought him back, . . . 

What's that you say f He has not come ? . . . Not here with you ? 
They brought his body home? Of care he had no lack? 

iOh, sir, it's some mistake. Oh, if you but only knew. . . • 

75 



SAMMIE'S LETTER HOME 



Oh, tell me, please. The wound was serious'? What? Whaf? Worse? 

My God! Not dead? He wrote 'twas slight. But no, . . . not 
dead. . . . 
Excuse my weakness, . . . but it seems hell's bitterest curse, 

Has fallen on my ears, ... in every word you said. 

I'm better now, . . . I'll tiy for home, ... in just a while. 

War, . . . War, . . . And yet he bravely died, that soothes the 
care. 
It won't be long, I have to bear the awful trial. 

For when her grave is dug, we three will be buried there. 

There where his father lies ; a soldier true and brave ; 

There where his mother sleeps; where fell her burning tears. 
There where I want Old Glory raised to ever wave. 

Three wars : but one flag only through the changing years. 



SAMMIE'S LETTER HOME 

We started away from the training, not knowing where we were 

to go. 
And shipped on a busting big steamer whose name is unmentioned, 

you know ; 
The name of the port is omitted, as well as the place we sail to ; 
I don't want this letter to miss you, so watch for the censorship, too. 

But at last we got fairly started, when along came a big submarine. 
Or something that somebody thought was much like a Prussian 

machine ; 
So we all got very excited and never lay down the whole night, 
Until the next morning they told us, a whale had caused all the 

fright. 

There's not much to do on the voyage, save now and then spinning a 

yarn, 
And I hope that what I'm now writing, won't do Uncle Sam any 

harm ; 
But consarn these bum life preservers, and the fuss that they make 

over such. 
If I had the right and the say-so, I'd throw them all plumb to the 

Dutch. 

76 



7A^ FRANCE, . . . SOMEWHERE 



For there's just about as much danger from "subs" and their bluff 

torpedoes 
As there'd be, if you tried along Wall street to pick up gold bonds by 

your toes; 
The Atlantic's a wondrous wide ocean and a big ship a mighty small 

speck ; 
And the U-boat's a tiny contraption that can't swim much over its 

neck. 

So since the Kaiser h'aint got 'em nosed in on each nautical mile, 
You're safer from such rare disasters than from eating your soup 

with a file. 
So that's all I think that I'll write now, for mess call's commencing 

to toot, 
And there's lots of good ginib awaiting, that us boys are going to 

shoot ; 

But the next time you read of the U-boats and their horrible big tor- 
pedoes. 

Please remember they kill just as rarely as a sneezing, spring cold in 
the nose. 



IN FRANCE, . . . SOMEWHERE 

'Twas hard even to let him go, to that fair land we cherish so ; 
That Sunny France, that glorious clime, of storied history sublime. 
Where man, since Old Rome's ancient day, has trained new vineyards 
o'er decay. 

I'm weeping still, . . . but glad he's there. 
Serving his flag, in France, . . . somewhere. 

At first it all came like a blow ; I simply couldn't let him go. 
Why 1 ... he was but my baby still ; to think of him, alone and ill, 
With all that rolling sea between, seemed like a mad, unreasoning 
dream. 

But now resigned, . . . I'm glad he's there. 
My soldier brave, in France, . . . somewhere. 

Mothers did not the war declare ; mothers do not for conquest care ; 
But now war's here, the same old song is sung to heart throbs deep 
and strong; 

77 



PUT US ACROSS THE SEA 



A song of hope, a lullaby, . . . for him who's gone to do, . . . or 
die. 

God, bring him back— is e'er my prayer, 

keep him safe, in France, . . . somewhere. 

It's all the tale of Motherhood, and not by War e'er understood ; 

A tale of smiles, a tale of tears; a tale of memories, sweet with 
years ; 

A tale of care, a tale of joy, in plans and hopes, ... all for my boy, 
God, let me then do my share, 
To help him win, in France, . . . somewhere. 



PUT US ACROSS THE SEA 

Chorus 

Regular Armee, rah, rah, rah. National Guard, hurray, 
National Armee, te ah de boom, we all are on our way. 
It's bigger business than wife or child, 

A bigger game than just me. 
So give us our guns and our trappings, too, 
And put us across the sea. 

Regular Soldier 

You bet your life, we're ready now, equipped up all galore. 

With some "West Points" for officers, and then some "Old Files" * 

more. 
Just put us in the foremost trench ; we'll take their gas and stuff. 
And make the Teuts buckjump the Rhine, when we get them by the 

scruff. Chorus 

National Guardsiman 

For home-defense, we're going to France ; that's where we'll bang at 

Fritz, 
Before back here he gets the chance to tear our map to strips. 
So, so-long Mary, . . . so-long John, we're for the real stuff, 
If we don't come back, 'wearing "meds," it's cause there ain't enough. 

Chorus 



• Experienced officers. 

78 



WHILE WAITING FOR THE TOP 



Conscript 

Just "can" that stuff on volunteers; cut out the spreadwing rot; 
We're giad to go on any show, the Kaiser must be got. 
So, nix, ... on phoney patriot whine ; it's business now with gun, 
And business for the Stars and Stripes we'll float above the Hun. 

At home with wife, and little kid, I thought I'd ought to stay, 
But I was glad the number came to put me in array. 
It's bigger business than wife or child, 

A bigger game than just me, 
So give us our guns and our trappings, too, 
And put us across the sea. 



WHILE WAITING FOR THE TOP 

The million-eyed mirror of water expanse. 

Winks brightly and smiling toward clouds high above, 

Straight down on the waters the sun strikes his lance. 
And bathed in effulgence the waves speak of love, 

While here we are waiting to strike at the foe ; . . . 

Ha, ha, what a riddle are we pigmies below ! 

The clouds gather proudly and float far away, 
But still they are draping their mantles above. 

The sun tilts his lance at the close of the day, 

And the night joins the waves in the song of their love; 

While here we are waiting to strike at the foe^ . . . 

Ha, ha, what a riddle are we pigmies below ! 



THE DAY OF PEACE 

The sinking sun in purple veil, enwraps its face of gold, 

Blue bars and tracks of opal light show where his chariot rolled; 

I look down in the wooded vale and see the lines of light, 

A trembling maze of sheeny rays, chained to that chariot bright. 



79 



THE BAY OF PEACE 



To hidden brooks and covered nooks, these rays brought light and 

day, 
Now, one by one, they seek the sun, from night they fade away ; 
Bright waves, and gold and silver lines take up their hurried flight; 
Here day is done, there but begun, beyond the pale of night. 

Now eveiy glow of light is gone ; the Earth mopes cold and dark ; 
An owl hoots in the sullen copse, where sung the morning lark ; 
The World becomes a dungeon deep whose keeper is the Night, 
But sweet the thought with comfort fraught; Day comes on wings 
of light. 

And though 'tis night, those wings of light bring somewhere glad'ning 

day, 
'Tis never night but what the light shines somewhere far away ; 
Those glowing wings and shining rays shall drive these shades away ; 
Then speed your flight, oh wings of light, for where thou art, is day. 

God's is the sun that makes each day undimmed by clouds of hate, 
While groaning on our mid-night way, we pass the morning gate ; 
And mad with hate, we struggle on, to where the shades ne'er cease. 
When there is always light there yon, in each calm thought of Peace. 



PLACE THE FLAG ON MY BODY 

Thinking, thinking, thinking, ... of thee, there at home, dear; 
Thoughts that come crowding in obsession strange. 
As I sight calmly my rifle's close range ; 
If this be murder for the flag that I love, 
Pray my forgiveness to God there above. 

Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming, ... of thee, there at home, dear ; 

While here the groaning of No Man's red land. 

With the glimpse of the tortured who writhe there beyond ; 

Perhaps on the morrow, I shall join that racked band. 

By the corpse of a fellow who has died by my hand. 

Praying, praying, . . . praying for Death's hand to strike, dear. 

That out of this flesh all mangled and torn, 

My spirit may fly to that far, peaceful bourne. . . . 

Place the flag on my body and smile as you mourn, 

I've come to the end, dear, all hate now forsworn. 

80 



THE GOOD OLD DEVIL 



THE GOOD OLD DEVIL 

(To music of Custer's .Old 7th U. S. Cavalry song) 

Oh, there^s a bloke, who says he's Kaiser, 
Heigh-ho ! The rolling water ; 

We're going to make him somewhat wiser, 
And call a halt on all his slaughter. 

We'll tie him to a Cross of Iron, 

Heigh-ho ! My comrades cheery ; 

And then his gmis won't longer fire on 
The trundle beds of babies weary. 

Before the devil comes to take him, 

Heigh-ho! The "Death Heads" boasting; 
The ghosts around will all awake him. 
To realize that he'll be roasting. 

And we shall warn the good old devil, 
Heigh-ho! devil grim, alone, . . . 

To watch out careful, on the level, . . . 

The Kaiser don't steal all his brimstone. 



THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE 

If you've never been in Paris, you have missed the joy of life. 

Oh, Paree, beau Paree, 

Just a ten days' leave in Paris is worth a life of strife. 

Oh, Lucie, in Paree; 

There's many a queenly throne that they show in chiseled stone. 

There's many a picture fair in musee rare, 

But there never was a queen, in all the seas between. 

And there never was a picture sweeter seen. 

Than that angel-faced Lucie whose eyes looked down on me, . . . 

Down from her cozy throne, in the Faubourg Saint Antone. 

Ah, Faubourg Saint Antone ! Oh, how my heart has grown. 
To love the thoroughfare, where Lucie there. 
Up on her little throne, runs a cafe all alone. 
And gives a smile out with each bill of fare. 

81 



THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE 



I was pretty wet and famished when my furlough was half up, 

In Paree, strange Paree, 

And was looking for just any place to sit me down and sup, 

Bread and tea, hungrily; 

And just by the rarest chance, on Lucie I chanced to glance. 

As at her little desk so picturesque. 

She counted up the change, and watched the maids arrange 

With girlish eagerness the menu strange. 

So, in the door I went, hardly knowuig on what bent. 

And bowed low at that throne, in the Faubourg Saint Antone. 

Ah, Faubourg Saint Antone, in all the world alone. 

Amid your busy life I'll seek a wife. 

And her name shall be Lucie and as fair as girl can be, 

And to her I'll give my very heart and life. 

I sat down close beneath her, and imagine my surprise, 

Oh, Lucie, sweet Lucie, 

When she spoke to me in English with an interest in her eyes, 

All for me, just for me; 

And I could scarcely eat in the sweetness of the treat. 

And with each dainty dish there came a wish 

That she, then, must have known, from her throne in Saint Antone, 

That for her my heart had quick and fondly grown. 

And the smile she gave so nice, seemed to come from paradise. 

To which my soul had flown from the Faubourg Saint Antone. 

Ah, Faubourg Saint Antone, a bee-hive sans a drone, 

Your honey and your spice are now for me. 

To your "Fair of Gingerbread," I'll be like a child that's led, 

By the waving of the hand of sweet Lucie. 

She told me how her father fell, a martyr of the Aisne, 

With a tear, glistening clear. 

And of her brothers (they were twain) who bravely fell, at Verdun 

slain, 
Men sincere, without fear; 

And how the convent she had left, when of bread they were bereft 
Three sisters small, she worked for all; 

But she brushed away her tears, and her voice upon my ears 
Poured out all the anguished story of her fears. 
In a tone that was so sweet that it filled my soul complete. 
Long I Imgered at that throne, in the Faubourg Saint Antone. 

82 



THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE 



Ah, Faubourg Saint Antone, of storied Place de Trone, 
Never on its guillotine was there more martyred seen, 
Face of sorrow, sweet and fair, than that of Lucie there, 
And her wrongs I'll gladly right with love supreme. 

And now the guns boom out for me, along the crimson line, 

Au revoir, Beau Paree; 

And I see again that Faubourg, while the crashing shrapnel whine, 

Ah Lucie, sweet Lucie. 

And in Sainte Marguerite, in the church's dim retreat. 

In that Chapel of the Souls, a music rolls 

Out from the organ deep, strong in its measured sweep. 

That with sweet echoing prayers, my courage keep ; 

And the prayers that I hear are from her lips so dear. 

That reach up to God's throne, for me from Saint Antone. 
Ah, church in Saint Antone, I hear that prayer entone. 
In Lucie's voice so true, while the music thrills me through^ 
Yes, still I hear her prayer, amid this thunder glare. 
Just as she prayed for me, when last I left her there. 



SPEAK lONLY HOPE 

Speak only Hope : 

For words are like the arrows swift; 

A thousand from one bow; 

And even when their force is spent. 

They show the bow for them was bent. 

Speak only Hope : 

For though the word seems lost in air, 

It still may quiver there. 

Beyond where crimsoning heroes stand. 

And give the foe, . . . their lives, thy land. 



THE KAISER'S CREED 

Orthodoxy is my doxy ; heterodoxy thine : 

Mine the doxy on thy proxy, of thy life is mine. 

What I want is right, you know ; what you want is wrong. 
Who would run your world for you, if I hadn't happened 'long? 



A CHALLENGE TO DEATH 



A MESSAGE TO THE GUNNERS 

To-morrow is another day. It may bring joy or sorrow. 
But I care not whate'er its lot ; I live not in the morrow. 

Today's today ! It is my own ! I'll kiss each moment fleeting ; 
And when it's gone there's time to hail the morrow's friendly 
greeting. 

Tomorrow's but another day; perhaps it may come never. . . . 
Yes, . . . may not come ; 'tis not begun. Today is with me ever. 

Then laugh away tomorrow's fears, and seek today thy pleasure, 
For sweet today has come to stay, all filled with yester's measure. 

L'envoi 
So signal to the gunners there the courage of our message. 
We'll strike with triumph now today ; nor wait for morrow's presage. 



A CHALLENGE TO DEATH 

^^If we go forward we die; if ice go backward we die; better go for- 
ward and die." (Old song.) 

Thus our hearts sing on with courage, as grim Death approaches 

near; 
So we sing in courting danger, as we laugh away our fear. 
If we forward go, we perish, but we die as brave men die; 
If we backward flee as cowards, soon despised we prostrate lie. 
If we feebly stand and falter. Death o'ertakes us soon and fast ; 
Let us then with bravery meet him, should he strike us down at last. 

With our hearts filled full of courage, with our guns held firm in 

hand. 
Let us bravely shout our challenge, when he comes from his dark 

land. 
Striking blow on blow we'll meet him, yet advancing ever still, 
We will fight grim Death with courage, fighting with a soldier's will. 

Should his specter arms enfold us, should he bear us far away ; 
Still with laugh we'll bravely straggle, mocking at his iron sway. 
Should he bring us to those regions, where he reigns in dreary cold ; 
Still we'll clmch him, never fiinch him; waging still our battle bold. 

84 



AN AIRPLANE'S VICTIM 



AN AIRPLANE'S VICTIM 

At evening's close as sunset glows would kiss the cruel world 

good-bye, 
I oft would lean in pensive pose, within the sentry box there high. 

Beneath me lay a garden fair, enclosed by wall of ivied stone; 
The scent of flowers filled the air, a fountain laughed in rippling tone. 
Beyond the garden's flowered bowers, loomed up an ancient convent 

school ; 
The children fairer than the flowers; their laugh more pleasant than 

the pool. 

And evei-y night I heard a song, ... of some young Sister, singing 

there, . . . 
Her cadenced measures, sweet and long, came floating to me through 

the air. 

And then the war seemed all a dream. . . . My fancy flew through 

casement barred. 
And saw the singer's features beam ; no mourning her sweet features 

marred. 

One night I waited long in vain to hear that voice of girlish grace; 
Alas ! 'Twill ne'er be heard again, a dirge was chanted in its place. 



THE SONGS THAT MOTHER SUNG 

I know 'tis rather common now, to think the soldier stock. 
Have most forgot those mother songs, that timed the cradle rock. 
'Tis rag and jaz and lively time, they think they want today, 
Sung on some phonograph machine, in our Y. M. C. A. 

The Angel Guard Thee lullaby seems just a trifle slow, 
And Jesus, Lover of My Soul, is out of date you know. 
So let us have a record jaz— some song of hip-hooray— 
Sung by a million dollar voice, in operatic way. 

Those dear old natural singing tones, we used to love to hear, 
Seem now to fall a trifle flat; yes, just a little queer. 
The dear old voice of years ago would make us blush today. 
If pjit upon the phonograph and sung in mother's way. 

85 



A TRENCHER'S PRESCRIPTION 



But when you're posted in the trench, and glum and blue and ill; 
Your memory's ear will hear a voice that makes your bosom thrill, 
The guns above you seem to cease, in songs of yesterday. 
In songs sung by the old sweet voice, in mother^s gentle way. 

And Rock of Ages Cleft for Me, and Home, Sweet Home, you hear, 
And memory pours those songs again upon your eager ear; 
Their refrain seems the sweetest song e'er sung by human tongue. 
And they shall win the war for us; those songs that mother sung. 



A TRENCHER'S PRESCRIPTION 

When the trench is cold and muddy, and your bones are stung with 

pain; 
When your spirit's low are sunken and you cuss the Kaiser's bane ; 
There is something that will bring you joy; will change your gloom 

to glee; 
And that's a pint, all steaming hot, of just good, plain old tea. 

When you're feeling faint and "stomachy," as if you had to drop. 
And the frosty mud, all gluey, just smears you like a mop ; 
There is something that will set you up, as sprucy as can be. 
And make a hero out of mud— and that's a pint of tea. 

I'm all that's left in our whole squad, to stand the mud and guns, 
For those who fight the wine and pipe can't fight these pesky Huns. 
So if I have the creeps and chills, I take my M and D * 
And then go happy to the trench, outside my pint of tea. 

You can have your wine and cigarettes; you can have your fags and 

rum; 
You can have your hypodermic dose, but I'll take tea, by gum. 
And if they ever drop me there on No Man's Groaning Lea, 
I'll fight the Kaiser into hell, ... if I can get my tea. 



♦ M and D — medicine and duty. 

86 



THE TALE OF A GERMAN SPY 



THE TALE OF A GERMAN SPY 

No, lawyer. . . . 'Tain't no use to try 

To change the verdict of the court. 

Ten years ! ... My life ! . . . Light for a spy ! . . . 

My heart's so full it's like to break. . . . 

... I want to sleep and never wake. 

Wish, . . . they'd shoot me, . . . much better so, . . . 

. . . For prison brand is, as you know, . . . 

... To honest men, far worse than death. 

Come close and give your lawyer's word, 
To keep my secret till, . . . she's dead : 
Ain't many stories like it heard. . . . 
They say that I'm a German spy, 
That for my crime I ought to die, . . . 
And, ... I plead guilty to the charge. . . . 
God ; A spy against the flag I love. 
A SPY! . . . But God shall judge above. 

Yes, . . . yes, 'tis true, I'm German, . . . bom. 

My parents came with me a babe. 

They left that Prussian land forlorn. 

For just the reason we now give : . . . 

The right to speak, ... to move, to live. 

For just the reason of our right. 

For which we're now there in the fight : . . . 

. . . For liberty's far-reaching light. 

Yes. . . . German native, . . . born am I, . . . 

But not for that condemned a spy. 

You see, my parents passed away. 

When I was still a child at play, 

And I an orphan of the State, 

Forgot my birthplace from that date. . . . 

Then on Nebraska's fertile plain 

As man I took a bounty claim. 

My nearest neighbor there to me. 

Died mad, . . . with drink, . . . and God's decree. 

Gave me his wife and little boy. 

And Oh ! ... the years of love and joy, 

87 



THE TALE OF A GERMAN SPY 



We three did pass, . . . till lie was grown. . 
And then in spite of all there came . . . 
A change in his young life for bad, . . . 
And often she and I were sad. 



'Twas all my fault. I spoiled the child. 

I loved him so, . . . and Love's great force, 

Let him go on just reckless wild. 

They 'rested him for stealing horse. . . . 

Nigh broke our hearts. We signed, of course, 

The bond to get him out of jail; 

And then one night he ran away. . . . 

The sheriff . . . sold our farm to pay. . . . 



So then we took what traps we had. 
And came to town to look for Jim, . . . 
And both of us were glum and sad, 
Afeered we get no sight of him. 
Ma'd ci-y till her dear eyes were dim, . . . 
And I'd go out through this great town, 
And walk and search and look aroun', 
'SATiile she'd pray home for Jim and me. 

One night, while looking sharp for him, 
I saw a drmik man reeling down. . . . 
And when I recognized our Jim 
I felt the happiest man in town ; 
E'en though our Jim was tumbling roun'. 
E'en though the joy was marred with pain. 
For we had got our Jim again, . . . 
And love, ... is just a thing humane. 

Jim staid around with us awhile. 

Till he was sobered up again. . . . 

Since then, I've never seen her smile. . . . 

. . . She only cried or prayed for Jim, 

Or sung some sweet old gospel hymn. 

. . . And then one night, . . . Jim went away, 

And left us both to yearn and pray, . . . 

Hoping that he'd come back some day. 

88 



THE TALE OF A GERMAN SPY 



The money we had put aside, 

Most went to Jim ; we fared with less ; 

And when he'd gone his mother cried, . . . 

. . . Af eered, . . . 'twas not enough for Jim ; 

For we would give our life for him : . . . 

. . . And so we waited day by day, 

Both wondering why Jim went away, . . . 

. . . While sick at home his mother lay. 

One day, in walks Jim, . . . slick and straight, 
... In all new clothes and diamond ring. 
Jim says, ". . . 'Sense me, if I've come late, 
But if you'll care for this here thing, . . . 
I've got a friend, ... I'd like to bring." 
He kissed his ma : Lord, how she cried, . . . 
And I took his valise, . . . big, . . . wide, . . 
. . . Which he to me, . . . then did confide. 



His friend, . . . and him, staid there that day, 
And slept the precious time away, 
While ma and me, ... in whispers still, 
Just wondered glad, at God's goodwill 
In sending us our Jimmie home, . . . 
So sober, good, ... no more to roam: . . . 
But when 'twas night, Jim disappeared, . . . 
. . . Though then for him, we nothing feared. 

My wife had prayed and gone to bed, 
When on the stairs, ... I heard a tread . . . 
Of men who burst the door straight through, . . 
And thrust their pistols into view. . . . 
"Hands up, you spy, ... or else you die." 
So then they searched me and the room. 
While my poor wife lay in a swoon, . . . 
. . . And I, . . . knew that I'd met my doom. 

They opened up Jim's . . . bi^ valise, . . . 
'Twas filled with bombs, . . . with nitro, grease: 
With maps and plans and pistols, too, . . . 
. , . And dynamite, . . . and then I knew, . . . 

89 



THE TALE OF A GERMAN SPY 



What Jim had done. ... So I be^n : . . . 
"You've got me, sirs. Yes, I'm your man, . . . 
I'm bom a German, . . . and you can 
Arrest me now, ... just as I stan'." 

So then they took me to this jail. 

While she lay there unconscious, pale. 

O God ! How glad I am that Jim, 

Wa'n't there that they should arrest him ; . . . 

For 'twa'n't so bad that I should go, . . . 

That it was Jim, she'll never know. . . . 

... So farewell, lawyer. . . . God bless you, 

You've done your duty, . . . good and true. 

. . . Stay! One word more before they take 

Me there to where, . . . my heart will break. . . . 

We all have got to do our bit. 

To try our duty to acquit. 

. . . Take this old watch. 'Tain't much, . . . worth, 

But all I have on this whole earth. 

. . . Sell it, . . . and then give half to her, , . . 

Half, ... to some Red Cross messenger. 

If for the name they shall ask you; 

. . . Just say a man, . . . whose heart was true; 

True to the land that made him free. 

From Hohenzollem tyranny: 

True to the land, ... his parents sought, 

... As refuge from the rule they fought; 

True to the land whose flag shall wave, . . . 

... In vengeance o'er each tyrant's grave. 

. . . Farewell ! I'm ready now to go, . . . 
Down to that tomb my head bends low. . . 
But maybe, sir, you'll let me know. 
When we have overcome the foe. 
. . . Down in that prison gloom of night. 
If I shall get those tidings bright, 
'Twill make the blackness shine with light. 
... Oh ! When we've won, . . . please write, . . . 
please write. 

90 



THE CRUMBS OF WAR 



GUIDE POST! GUIDE OUT! GUIDE ON! 

Guide post ! guide out ! guide on ! 

No more shalt thou quick wheel in place 

To take thy post with firm set face; 

Thy ribboned staff another holds. 

The spirit land gave its command. 

Thou hast thy post with heaven's host. 

But we'll guide out, . . . guide on. 

Guide post ! guide out ! guide on ! 
We cannot tell who next shall hear 
Far heaven's order bugling near. 
Stand fast and ready, one and all, 
To answer brave that bugle call. 
Yea! Give up life in soldier's strife, 
And take our post with heaven's host, 
And still guide out, . . . guide on. 



THE CRUMBS OF WAR 

Far across the rolling sea. 

My ship was coming, ... in to me. 

I waited for it, long, long years. 

With hopes and fears, with prayers and tears. 

. . . But now War's ships in place have come, 

With War to share my beggar's crumb. . . . 

Hail ! War ! Where is my ship of gold ? 

Where on that troubled sea, so cold ? 

Far across the rolling sea. 

My ship was sailing home to me. 

War! Hast thou seen its glistening sails? 

Its golden prow, its silver rails? 

Hast thou not seen it sailing home, 

Its proud form gliding through the foam? 

Hail ! War ! Why hast thou come between 

My ship and me, with thy mad threne? 

91 



TBE GUARDHOUSE LAWYER 



Long, long I gazed across the sea, 

And prayed my ship might come to me, 

To ease the penury of years, . . . 

... To save my loved ones from my fears. 

Alas ! . . . I turned back to that crumb, 

That War would share, . . . and then War, dumb 

And grim, snatched all away 

And left my babes in Want's dismay. 

So, . . . now I look across the sea. 

And pray . . . my ship shall come to me. . . . 

I do not ask that it shall bear 

The luxuries of cargo rare. . . . 

... I only ask that it shall come. 

And bring me back my beggai-'s crumb: . . . 

My beggar's crumb, . . . and Peace, care free. 

Hail ! Peace ! Guide in that ship to me. 



THE GUARDHOUSE LAWYER 

Old Skaggs (a private in our squad) nigh twenty years has served 
And never got beyond the ranks, which was what he deserved. 

He knows the manuals all by heart ; could drill a company true ; 
But just because he is too smart, he's still a private, too. 

For his delight is when at night, he learns of some arrest. 
To straight away put in his play and give advice with zest. 

He'll tell you then, in language queer, and hard to understand. 
Just what to say before the court, where there (next day) you'll land. 

Lord! How he dqes lay down the pleas: abatement; general; bar; 
Joint and challenge ; venue-change ; with articles of war. 

And soon you feel so innocent, you're sure of your discharge; 

And for the court don't give a cent, when Skaggs discourses large. 

"The charge aforesaid being thus; the specifications so; 
The case becomes notorious, as the J. A.* should know." 



* Judge advocate. 

92 



THE GUARDHOUSE LAWYER 



"So jurisdiction you should plead, and make no waiver there ; 
And then the court cannot proceed to make the witness swear." 

And if you all bewildered say "I don't just understand," 
He condescends to answer you, in words and gestures grand. 

"The charge, in violation here, is as aforesaid, 

So don't forget, when you're arraigned, to have the charges read." 

"And then make bold and strong your plea, as I have just now said, 
And then they'll have to stop the case, to get the charge 'mended." 

Well, when I came before thfe court, I did as Skaggs had said, 
When biff, . . . they doubled on my blind, f . . . and gave me hard t 
instead. 

And when I'm sweating on the rocks, and Skaggs does turn on guard, 
He looks at me, most wearily, with haughty disregard. 

Forgive me, if I hope that when old Skaggs is good and dead, 
Tliey'll have the buglers merry play, a dirge of "foresaid said." 



PEACE AGAIN 

Softly fall the gentle waves, laughing, singing on the shore ; 
'Twas but yesterday, they broke, furious in the tempest roar. 

He who quelled that raging sea ; He who bade that flood subside ; 
Shall dispel with victory this mad storm, where war-clouds ride. 

Then again we'll sweetly dream; joyous wake with Morning Star; 
Days shall join the flowered stream, but we'll not forget this war. 



BY HER LONELY SOLDIER GRAVES 

Among the graveled, winding walks that circle round the churchyard 

grounds, 
A black-robed figure silent kneels before three lonely burial mounds. 
Two graves are old, thick clothed with green; the other grave is 

newly made; 
But o'er the three, the flowered flags show where each soldier form is 

laid. 



t Fine without imprisonment. 
$ Hard labor, 

93 



BY HER LONELY SOLDIER GBAVES 

The white-haired woman bows and weeps, and moves her lips as if 

to pray; 
For in those silent shadowed graves, her father, son and husband lay. 
Long years ago, in sixty-two, they buried there her father brave. 
And then, in ninety-eight, they dug, for her husband, the second 

grave. 

And then the third, . . . her son's new mound. Ah, how she trembles 

with the pain, 
'Twas yesterday, they laid him there, brought back from France 

beyond the Aisne. 
"0 God," she cried, then quickly ceased, as to her ears bright laughter 

came. 
The silver laughter of a child, in happy joy at some new game. 

The child in wonder at the tombs, came up the flowered, silent way— 
"Why, Grandma, do you look so sad, among these flowers all so gay? 
"Oh see those flags, that wave so bright. . . . May I not have one too 

some day*?" 
"Ah, yes, my boy, . . ." in voice contrite, 
"There'll be such flags, for us, for aye." 



SAYONARA 

The liquid tongue of fair Japan, well boasts a changeful word; 
It charms the ear, or cuts the heart, as oft as it is heard. 
Sayonara! Changeful, tuneful sayonara! 

"If so it must be, let it be," such meaning has this tone, 

A battle song ; a bugle call ; 

A word of cot and throne. 

Sayonara! Sing and bugle sayonara! 

The mothers sing this lullaby, 
To future men of war : 
"Sleep babe ! Don't cry ! 
God watches from afar." 
Sayonara ! A lullaby is sayonara. 

94 



A SLICKER IN BACCAROON 



The lotus blooms ; the lover sighs ; 

Now glad with youth he dreams. 

The lotus fades; in war he dies; 

His tomb her refuge seems. 

Sayonara. Love and . . . Death sing Sayonara. 

L'envoi 
The great Pacific makes allies of Christian and of Shinto, 
Where Sayonara brings us Peace, we both shall sing our hymn too. 



A SLICKER IN BACCAROON 

(The Slicker Himself) 

Ha, ha, ... he wore his spurs, and a cap-string too. 

And a moleskin trench coat, furred and new, 

With a reefer cut, and a tragic strut 

He wore with swagger stick, as down the lobby he blew. 

Yes, blew a swath right through the common civilians like me and 

you. 
Ha, ha, . . . 'twas rich, as he came there to the Ladies' Entrance; 
His spurs, they clanked and clanked, as there he spanked and spanked 
That silly crop with its golden top. 
Ha, ha, ... I thought he'd fall over backward ; 
He stood as straight as a whole squad awkward. 
You could readily see that he wanted to be 
Something the ladies delight to see 
In their dreams of knights and warriors bold. 
In the jousting days of the fools of old. 
Poor ass ! Let him strut in his dunce paradise. 
Seems he's a calf, who'll never get wise; 
A hero of Opera Bouffe— Pouffe ! Pouffe ! 
Tin soldier cartoon ! Buffoon ! Pantaloon ! 
But the war shall change his tune, . . . 
He'd run from the man in the moon. 
Ha, ha, ha, ha, . . . poor loon. 

(An observer, sixty days after.) 

Alas! No spurs for him; no, never more, . . . 
On those limbs so shattered in that roar 

95 



A SLICKER IN BACCAROON 



Of shrapnel swift crash, as he led the dash, 

And bore our blood tide on, to save our salient lost. 

Yes! On the red wave tossed; his courage led the rest across, 

Ah, ah, . . . one man amid the struggling host; and he tin soldier! 

Ah, ah, . . . the tear of flesh and bone, and just one man, alone, alone. 

No, not the crop, for that crimson top. 

As he struck up and strong, there high, still onward. 

While you, you slick, would have dropped back downward. 

And now his eyes call from his flesh-torn pall, 

The pride of his sacriflce, hope, love and all. 

For the land of his birth, to prove his own worth ; 

Wliile you worm of the earth, begrudged him his mJrth. 

That day ! The very last one of his now ended youth. 

Bade farewell, for aye to his youth, aye forsooth ; 

For you, gnat of the mud, with your fishy white blood. 

Rank slicker of baccaroon, . . . poltroon. . . . 

God end your soft nuisance, . . . and soon . . . 

Ugh. . . . For life, . . . he's maimed for your boon ! 

For you, . . . for you, . . . poltroon ! 



CLOSE UP . . . FOR COAL 



Pentalic marble, satin-veined, the classic Greeks carved into gods. 
Ha, ha, . . . those old Greeks gracious. 

They called them Zeus, Hermes, Alcmene, Adonis, Pan and Theseus. 
And then the Romans matched them there, and in every house the 

Lares 
Were fashioned fair and costly rare, in every gem that there is. 



Ha, ha, ha, ... I know just what they'd do to-day ; 

They'd turn from bronze, from gilded clay, 

From marble, pearls and ivory old; from silver pure and precious 

gold. 
To just one thing fit for their shrines. 
They'd grab at coal, . . . right at the mines. 

96 



HE DIED A SOLDIER'S DEATH 



They'd make Athena's Imes of light all glorious in pure anthracite; 
And Nike's lovely temple bright would black the nose of Aphrodite ; 
Don't laugh! for you might slight that god— lump coal— our source 
of might. 

So, merry comrades, have a heart, and pray that Uncle Sam may 

know 
That this cantonment's bins (our shrines) are out of coal (and ten 

below ) . 
But hist ! Don't blab on ancient art. We'll never win this war at all, 
If those high-brows once get to know that coal's fit for a marble hall. 



HE DIED A SOLDIER'S DEATH 

He died a soldier's death, . . . though far removed 
From Europe's fronts of bloody strife apart. 

In this home grave, his chafing pain is soothed, 
And still he shares the anguish of our heart. 

He died a soldier's death : . . . yet never heard 
The crash of bursting shell or barrage roar; 

The courage of the life that in him stirred 
Was free from every stain of war and gore. 

He died a soldier's death : . . . too soon he died 
To share the triumphs of War's courage red. 

The bugle sounding, . . . ceased there at his side. 
Its echoes mingling with the prayer we said. 

He died a soldier ; freely gave that life 

He loved ; and yet he called it not his own. 

Then sound the taps of time to war and strife. 
And let our prayer for him, ... be for our own. 

We plant upon thy grave this cypress bough. 

Cease, . . . mother, . . . cease ! The burning, welling tear. 
His life, our lives Old Glory's hopes endow. 

Mother ! He sleeps with dreams of God's peace near. 

97 



ZERO IS AT TWELVE 



ZERO IS AT TWELVE ! 

Zero is at twelve! Zero is at twelve! . . . 

How the laggard moments creep, while our hearts within us leap. 

Twelve! And now it's only nine. the dread those hours confine! 

Three times sixty minutes more, like waves beating toward a shore, 

Each a sail full blown with fear, drivmg toward that hell land near; 

There, upon that corpse strewn strand, girting red that No Man's 
Land. 

Ah, when twelve again shall sound, what shall then my soul sur- 
round ? 

Zero shall at twelve command : God, "My times are m Thy hand." * 

Zero is at twelve! . . . Zero is at twelve! . . . 

Shall this "twelve" my midnight be to that end : eternity. 

Or shall it still mark the noon of my life's sweet hopes and boon? 

Shall it strike my midnight doom in this cannons' deafening boom "? 

Oh, would that it might summon me, back again unscathed and free 

To the noon-tide of that life, which shall rise from out this strife 

In God's full meridian! . . . What of God, is then the plan? 

Zero is at twelve ! . . . Zero is at twelve ! . . . 

They the dead sleep on the same ; now their life is just a name. 

Rats and maggots gnaw them there, 'neath the gunners' aching glare. 

Shall I then when twelve has come, share with them their martyrdom ? 

Or shall I with life remain, to avenge those wanton slain 

And to pray beside their tomb, when peace rises o'er this gloom? 

Zero is at twelve! . . . Zero is at twelve! . . . 
But five minutes now remain of Time's long unending chain. 
Now then, . . . what? A prayer? A song? . . . What will bridge 
this waiting long? 

GO ! I hear the whistles blow. NOW ! On to the top we go ! 
Each man but a drop of spray in this wave that springs away, 
Toward that seething broken shore, crimson in its tide of gore. 
Huzza ! Hail ! Grim Zero's here ! Up and raise a rousing cheer ! 
Gone the ache, the empty fear, of that field of No Man drear; 
Gone all dread of No Man's Land, as we spring at the command ; 
Gone all fright and anguish there, as I voice my simple prayer : 
God the Father of my Land : yea, "My times are in Thy hand." 



♦Psalms 31:15. 

98 



MERCI, KAMEBAB 



MERCI, KAMERAD! 

Says the sergeant, "Yes, 'tis true; such a thing is old, not new; 
I myself have done the same, and not thought it much a game." 
'^Yes, but sergeant, think, Pat claims, that he led across the lanes. 
Fifty prisoner Huns, and more, through the cannons' smashing roar; 
Claims he brought them to the rear, easy as a herd of deer : 
Now it seems to me untrue, that he such a feat could do; 
Fifty prisoners to one guard ! To believe it sure is hard." 

"Not at all," the sergeant wise, answered (to my great surprise). 

"I could drive a hundred Hun with a rusty Springfield gun. 

When I'd searched them through and through, for I know just what 

to do." 
"Well, then, sergeant, tell I pray, how to handle Huns that way." 
"Why, my lad, it is no trick, though it works most sure and slick." 
(Here the sergeant stopped to cough) "Cut their belts and pant- 
straps off." 

Then I simply had to smile, as my memory worked the while, 
And I solved the mystery how Attila made Europe bow, 
'Twas because that in his day, Huns wore nothing in the way 
Of "galluses" or of belts; knew them not like Romans, Celts. 
Hence the ancient Pope Leo had to placate them, you know. 
While in these days Deutsch Kultur exacts pants, which makes Huns 

sure 
Easy prisoners to our scoff, as we cut their pant-straps off. 
Ha, ha, ha. Easy as a smile to-day as we cut their straps away. 
Hist! My merry comrades gay. Please don't give this thing away, 
For if Bill the Red e'er knows, he'll take the pants from off our foes. 

P. S. 

'Scuse me if I thus enhance, virtues of a thing like pants. 

Hope 'tis not vulgarity, stating facts of history; 

Still of course, smallclothes indeed (though they are of stringent 

need), 
None the less are rare in use, by the classic poet's muse. 
Hence perhaps I may offend : so I'll quit and try to mend 
If some artist famed and great shall this story full relate 
On a canvas bold and true, that shall all portray to you. 
('Sdeath ! My verse is short of wit to deal with the subject fit.) 

99 



WAR'S KISMET 



WAR'S KISMET 

While rummaging an attic old, I chanced upon an ancient chest ; 
And wonderingly I forced the lock, in just an idle quest; 
An old and ancient chest, that woke my interest. 
So then I struck the lock aside, in just an idle quest. 

Within there lay the folded garb of one who long had passed away ; 
But in the midst a withered rose perfumed the mould of Time's 

decay ; 
Breathed still though withered gray, the scent of that dead day. 
Through those long years of smiles and tears, since it was plucked 

away. 

take this rose, my soldier true, an amulet for your brave strife. 
He smiled, "The rose shall bloom again, and you shall wear it as my 

wife. 
The rose shall bloom again with fragrance for us twain ; 
Shall breathe upon your heart and mine a balm to parting pain." 



HER MIRROR 

Here in this mirror she has looked, a thousand times, a thousand 

days ; 
Sometimes coyly, sometimes boldly; always sweetly, never conscious 
Of the beauty in this mirror, answering back her guileless gaze. 

Ah, could some magic's strange deceit call back those portraits 

wondrous fair. 
Sometimes smiling, never frowning; always lovely, never wanting 
Color tones of Truth resplendent; vanished, gone, those portraits 

there. 

L'envoi 

The mirror is the ocean blue, and Peace was she, whose charms it 
knew. 

100 



THE DOVE OF PEACE 



THE DOVE OF PEACE 

Oh, when, oh, when wilt thou return ? 

Here wait by Treasure Mountains bound the fields of gold and ver- 
dant green, 

AH stubble now, but yet the precious gleam shines out beneath 

The fallen vine, while flowers round the torn trees twine 

And wait and wait for thee. 

The golden dells, the silver vales, the northern oak, South's orchids 
rare, 

Shores fragrant still, their welcome send, with flowered incense to 
the breeze. 

That with a zephyr sigh lends there, a fragrance to the shell-stripped 
woods. 

That wait and wait for thee. 

Behold the Sea's unrest for thee, the crimsoned rivers hung with 
gloom. 

The drooping banks where willows grow amid those perfumed dells 
of old. 

O Dove of Peace! is there not here in all this midst of hate and war, 

One charm that still will bring thee back, to this torn land so deso- 
late 

That waits and waits for thee? 



LI-BER-TY BOiONDS 

No pleasure's quite so like to honey 
As sitting down and counting money. 
But heretofore I've had my trouble 
In holding what I've sweat to grubble. 
But now I've got the system royal. 
So hark me, all ye sons of toil. 

Ha, ha, money comes : alack, money goes, . . . 
Empty handed toss it back in the current where it flows 
In the fashion I shall tell (as man to the poorest knows) 
Thus you'll have and spend. Steadier than the ceaseless tide. 
Swifter than the rivers run, money courses 'round the world 
In a race that's never done ; money rolls along. 

101 



LI-BER-TY BO-ONDS 



You may think you have it fast, hugged and hoarded close and tight ; 
Sleep a moment and you'll find all your money taken flight. 
Money doesn't sleep. (Alas! . . . that's why I weep) 
Hide your money in a bag, buried deep beneath the mould, 
Still you'll find it gets away; money's hard to hold. 

Make your money proud of you. Buy "Li-ber-ties" with a smile. 
There it's spent and saved as well; Uncle Sam guards it the while. 
Thus you save and spend as well, while you toll the Kaiser's knell 
In the song of Freedom's bell sounding from our citadel. 
Li-ber-ty Bo-onds! Li-ber-ty Bo-onds! 
Backed with gold and diamionds; backed with millions; guns and 

men; 
Half the world and more again; backed with all that man can trust; 
(Banks that have them never bust), sweet "Li-ber-ties" never rust, 
They'll be good when thrones are dust. Li-ber-ty Bo-onds! 
Li-ber-ty Bo-onds: (While Bill the Red yells, "Zounds") 
Point by point they'll climb the rounds, on their listing on the 

'Change 
Where they'll go 'bove par in range. Li-ber-ty Bo-onds ! 
A chance for kings and vagabonds. Li-ber-ty Bo-onds! 
See how quick each purse responds to that joyous toning there: 
Four per cent ! Egad ! where can more profit man e'er tell '? 
When man spends and saves as well to that joyous call that sounds, 
Li-ber-ty Bo-onds! Li-ber-ty Bo-onds! 



IN THE DARDANELLE TRENCHES 

Fierce rules he all, this pitiless burning sun. 
When once on high his course is full begun ; 
And o'er the land and sea his magic sway 
Holds him the king of heaven's depthless day. 
Proudly he mounts the pathless, boundless sky. 
Mighty, his dazzling form descends from high; 
His handmaiden, the Earth, bows at his feet, 
Beneath his savage gaze and passion's heat. 
mighty king! How clings this world to thee. 
For, to the last, the turquoise-bosomed sea 
The valleys green, the mountains' purple row, 
The silver-ribboned plains in after glow 

102 



MY GARDEN OF PEACE 



Attend thee, as in triumph, thou eoursest 'way 

As if they would thy glorious parting stay ; 

And after thy great form at last has set, 

The brilliant writ message of Earth's regret. 

Still thrills the sky in colors widely spread, 

And through the night Earth waits in darkness dead. 

Yearning to greet thy rosy mom, 

Again thy slave throughout the day new born. 

L'envoi 

So has the mighty king ruled in his sway. 
From Xerxes' time to this our own red day; 
And thus shall he still pace the lurid sky, 
When races still unformed in war shall die. 



MY GARDEN OF PEACE 

Garden fair! Garden rare! 
My heart shall find a refuge there. 
Garden bright with jasmine white 
That gilds its heart with morning light. 

My dreams float through my flower scented garden, 
Planted by memories in the perfumed past ; 
For Peace alone that garden breathes its fragrance. 
And Peace has sealed its secret portal fast. 

No lurking Mars shall hear its fountain playing, 
No Ares fierce shall see its vision rare ; 
The olive branch waves o'er those aisles fair blooming, 
And glad with Peace I scent their fragrance rare. 

Acacias, pinks and myrrh in banked profusion, 
Caraelias (but some are crushed, 'tis true). 
Lilacs and lilies, salvia blue and tulips- 
Memories all and bathed in fadeless dew. 

And now these memory paths I calmly wander. 
And pause a moment as I saunter slow, 

103 



A BETHELMONT GRAVE IN LORRAINE 

To smile upon some bloom full opened newly, 
To sigh beside some flower fallen low. 

And then I sit beside the silver fountain, 

Fed from the currents of the peace of old, 

And dream and live again those heart-knit memories. 

Woven with flowered tints of silk and gold. 

Ah ! Recollection^s fragrant flowered garden. 
Fling open then thy golden gates of peace; 
That from the crimsoned walls of sullen Janus 
The wounded may from War find their release, 

Avaunt! Ye ghosts of gory battle phantoms, 
Begone! Legions of War, of Hate and Pain. 
The vine girt walls of memories sun bright garden 
Shall ever charm away thy forces vain. 



A BETHELMONT GRAVE IN LORRAINE 

Just a line of new trimmed paling, edged and mitred into railing, 
Where the gun wheels show their trailing, by Bethelmont's torn 

road; 
Where once flowers were exhaling, perfume to the sun regaling, 
Now through all the ruins prevailing, and from town to field deep 

veiling, 
Comes the gloom of war assailing, where once Peace had its abode. 

And I pause to join in praying, while the cannon still are flaying. 
And the ground beneath is swaying with the quaking battles roar ; 
And there my fears allaying, I hear his voice calm saying: 
"Dread not the battle's slaying, nor all Hell's host arraying, 
In God's command obeying, then peace comes evermore." 

lOn toward the guns with wonder, I start nor fear their thunder 
That breaks the earth asunder as on I make my way; 
While from the clay there under, my comrade's voice e'en fonder 
Drives out my fear of wonder, or all that death can conjure, 
There in the battle yonder, where I calm join the fray. 

104 



GOOD-BTE, PAPA 



GOOD-BYE, PAPA 

little lips whose prayer is just begun, 
little life whose world still lies beyond, 
baby feet that start on ways untrod, 
baby hand still clasped in that of God, 
little one! Your prayer I pray. 
God keep your father safe alway. 

Just a little tot so tiny, with his golden hair sunshiny, 
And the gleam from God's own kingdom, still radiant on his brow. 
In the midst of tramping soldiers, with their guns upon their shoul- 
ders, 
As the wives and mothers bum with tears, while bugles "Forward" 

blow; 
And in all that grand commotion, with its thrill and deep emotion, 
Above the music and the cheers, above the sharp commands, 
I hear his sweet voice crying, midst the weeping and the sighing, 
^Neath the flags and banners flying, of our own and other lands. 
Hear that call that falls as softly, as our silken flags raised lofty. 
Come as light as satin streamers proudly headed on for France, 
And in all that war assembling, comes to me his voice sweet trembling 
With the thrill that leaps from every childish plea: 
"Papa, dear Papa; come back, come back to me." 

And I see the mother weeping, her heart within her leaping, 

And her tears like jewels falling upon his golden hair; 

As she looks and tries to follow, with eyes burnt bright and hollow, 

The tall form of their soldier, one of the thousands there. 

With none to comfort bring her, she still stays on to linger, 

Until the final echoing call, until the iinal cheer 

Of those men, some gone forever, where the shades of Death swift 

gather. 
And the golden chord shall sever, that brave they hold yet dear. 
And she gathers to her bosom, in her tears and lone confusion, 
The golden curls whose halo is a light from God's own shore, 
And in a voice low spoken, with tears and anguish broken, 
With caress and with kiss, she murmurs tremulously: 
"He's gone. He's gone, ... to fight for babe and me." 

105 



GOOD-BYE, PAPA 



And I bow my head instinctive, to some command distinctive, 
That cries, ''This ground is hallowed, where here she shed her tears." 
And in the night advancing, I see a Star's light glancing 
As there it shone on Bethlehem, ago two thousand years; 
And there alone the woman, distressed by War's ill omen, 
Lifts up her grieving head, her eyes still veiled with tears. 
And seems to see it shining, its message true divining. 
The thought of God enshrining, as there that Star appears ; 
And through War's black foreboding, God's men with hate on goad- 
ing. 
The Star shines through the darkness, on her head and the babe's ; 
And in that Star's light gleaming, that comes to her full streaming, 
An angel radiant hails her and calls glad, joyously : 
"He'll still live on, when all men are made free." 

.0 little lips whose prayer is just begun, 
little life whose world still lies beyond, 
baby feet, that start on ways untrod, 
little one, still standing close to God, 
The angel that waits shining there, 
Is thine own spirit, radiant fair. 



THE TALE OF CHIFFON RAGS 

Rags, Rags, Rags; God knows I grieve that shot. 

Good old Rags; my comrades may think not. 

But every hour of the day. 

In empty night or thickest fray. 

In my defense I only say, 

'Tis war, ^tis war, . . . that's sapped my sense away. 

'Twas just a mass of towseled hair and clay. 
That on three legs came limping up one day. 
He sniffed along the line and eyed each man. 
As winding in and out those three legs ran; 
And when without a miss he'd made the round. 
He sort of sighed and hunched down on the ground, 
And slept along the sand bags two days straight. 
And not a drop he drank or morsel ate. 

106 



THE TALE OF CHIFFON RAGS 



"Some Belgian dog-, that pulled a gunner's cart, 
Just see how chafed his ribs show there apart," 
Said Jim, and gently poked him with his toe. 
"He's hunting for his master, that I know, 
Who has, I just suppose, been pitched to hell, 
With no one left alive his tale to tell. 
While this lame dog's still hunting for his ghost, 
And simply won't give up the man's he's lost." 

"Give him a shot to end his misery," 
Says Bill, and points his gun with trigger free ; 
But Jim just shoved his gun sudden aside: 
"You'll save that for the fire-step turn," he cried, 
"Give him a chance to live; though dog he be, 
He's more a man than many hounds I see." 
So left alone there with the dog stayed Jim, 
His face all fixed and set with meaning grim. 

Some pauloos happened in the trench next day, 

And then the dog waked up in solemn way. 

And went to each and wagged his tail and barked. 

As if his memory to their language harked ; 

And every time French troops would go and come, 

That dog would joyous be and then turn glum, 

Wihen in their ranks his master did not stand 

(Poor chap, perhaps long dead in No Man's Land). 

The pauloos called him Chiffon, which means rags; 
So soon Jim's dog was "Rags," his bloody snags 
Jim combed all out and cured him of the mange. 
And o'er that dog there came a wondrous change. 
As slick and well and strong as any dog was he ; 
And Jim just petted him as proud could be. 
And hid him on inspections in a hole 
And fed him from his helmet for a bowl. 

And though that dog would still go searching round. 
He'd keep an eye on Jim at every bound. 
As if he feared some harm would come to Jim, 
'Twas almost human love he had for him. 

107 



THE TALE OF CHIFFON BAGS 



Well, billet to the firing step's a stretch 
That needs a comrade, be he saint or wretch, 
And that dog Rags was such a part of Jim 
That even in the barrage break we envied him. 

Rags, come. Rags: (whistles) Dogs make me think of home; 

Good old Rags : (whistles) as down the trench he'd roam. 

For misery loves company. 

Though just twixt man and beast it be, 

A shadow to big Jim was he. 

Where growled the guns so hungrily. 

To go and take the top, the order came. 

And at Jim's side wagged Rags and followed game 

Out from our parapet to No Man's Land, 

With Jim strong leading first of all our band. 

Zoom, bing, smash, pfiff, down one by one they dropped, 

Before we gimners had the Huns' guns stopped. 

And when the fumes and dirt had cleared away. 

Far off in No Man's Land, Jim's body lay. 

Way yonder, where he'd dropped the last of all, 
We saw him struggling up, big Jim so tall. 
Ah, then he waved his hand as if in a farewell, 
Just like he had some message he would tell ; 
And by his side that dog just hunched and barked 
Defiance to each passing shell it harked. 
And through that day we watched Jim and his dog, 
Until night came with all its black and fog. 

Then all was silent till the midnight hour, 

With not a star-shell glare or rocket shower; 

Till then we heard a far off distant yelp 

That told that Jim had gone beyond our help; 

Just like a human call thrilled with despair 

That chilled our hearts as we were waiting there. 

" 'Tis Rags," we said ; "Jim's gone. That is his knell. 

Of braver man than he, there's none can tell." 

The morning came, red through the gloomy cloud. 
And shone on dead that had no grave nor shroud. 
And o'er the shambles wet and red, one sign of life 
Appeared in all that yesterday of strife; 

108 



THE TALE OF CHIFFON BAGS 



Just Rags, who waited by Jim's silent side 
And licked the hands of him who brave had died, 
While troubled he would whine around big Jim 
And beg and coax for sign of life from him. 

And then the Prussians countered on us strong, 
Until we gunners sung our fire song. 
And laid them thick beneath our steady hail. 
And turned the tables on their No Man's tale; 
But still that No Man's Land lay there between. 
Though now 'twas dying Huns who filled the scene, 
But on beyond we still looked o'er the bound 
To see if Rags could still alive be found. 

Then at my feet I heard a curious ary. 

I looked and there came Rags hard limping by. 

He fawned and yelped, though bleeding deep and fast; 

"He's gone," I thought. "This hour is his last." 

I stooped to pet him, but he snapped and tore 

Back where his wound was filled with dirt and gore. 

"Poor Rags," I said, "you're mad with pain and grief. 

" 'Tis duty now to give you sure relief." 

So quick I threw my gun straight at his head. 

He took the shot reproachful and fell dead. 

His teeth snapped back close 'neath the matted hair 

As if he had some secret guarded there. 

I stooped and saw a helmet cord stained red, 

All hidden, matted with the blood he'd shed. 

I saw there was a message there concealed. 

And started when I saw what it revealed. 

'Twas Jim who wrote it with his dying strength. 

It told about a salient cut the length 

Of No Man's Land the Prussians had laid out. 

And how they still were tunneling our redoubt. 

It told us to attack without delay 

And how to make the drive and win the day. 

The General then I sought, to show Jim's note; 

He followed Jim's advice, just as Jim wrote. 

109 



THE TALE OF CHIFFON RAGS 



Did we win'? Well, never was there laid 

A better plan to beat a Prussian raid. 

We gunners blazed our seventy-fives at best, 

While to the top our rifles went with zest. 

We killed two hundred tunnelers there at least. 

Who would have got us but for Rags, a beast. 

Yes, Rags, a beast, and Jim, that man most brave ; 

Those two alone from death our lives did save. 

And when the gloiy of the day was done. 
And each took count of what was lost and won, 
My mind was still on Rags; I could not sleep; 
I felt that just for Rags my heart would weep. 
I wondered why I pulled my gun so quick 
Upon poor Rags so wounded, sore and sick; 
And when they buried Rags 'longside of Jim, 
I looked and saw the eyes of all were dim. 

And now has come my punishment and pain; 
On me my comrades put a leper's bane. 
There's none will speak to me at mess or call, 
Each comrade silent turns; won't speak at all. 
And I know well the reason why I'm cut; 
I heard them talking at the sergeant's hut : 
"He's just as bad as any savage Hun, 
He killed our Rags, ... a dog himself to shun.'' 

And in the dreadful waiting of the night, 

I hear Rags' bark go echoing far and light, 

And see Jim's hand there waving weak and sad, 

As if to stay the gun I shot so mad. 

I hear Jim call, "Save Rags, my courier brave and true," 

And guilty, I accept my comrades' just taboo. 

Ah ! What mad craze did I then have in mind 

To kill poor Rags, so like to human kind. 

Rags, Rags, Rags, I'm sorry I shot you. 

Poor old Rags, we might have pulled you through. 

But Rags, this war had made me mad, 

To shoot was all the thought I had, 

Jim saved your life to save the day. 

While I, ... just threw your life away. 

110 



A HERO OF THE LEGION 



Rags, Rags, Rags ! They^re right, I murdered you. 

Poor old Rags. A fiendish thing to do. 

But where there's war and hate as well, 

A man slips downward into hell. 

This hell that knows no human way, 

Nor thought of God and judg-ment day. 



A HERO OF THE LEGION 

"A hero of the Legion, of the Legion Etrangere," 

They said, and gave me medals three, all fashioned costly, rare. 

... I took them as a gift from you, from you, mother true, 
For if Hwas braveiy I showed there. 

The courage came from you. 

A hero of the Legion, of the Legion Etrangere, . . . 

Ah mother, are you proud of me? If so, I've not a care 

For these maimed limbs that shackle life. ... I know, mother 
dear. 
For every drop of blood I've shed, 

You've shed for me a tear. 

A hero of the Legion, of the Legion Etrangere, . . . 

Ah mother, I am coming home, to your dear loving care. 

I'm coming home to my reward : your kiss, mother mine, 
Shall bring sweet waters to my life. 

Where War, . . . brought bitter brine. 

A hero of the Legion, of the Legion Etrangere, 

With palms of victory and the star of France's croix de guerre, 

And with medaille militaire and legion d'honneur, too : 
Mother, are you as proud of me, 

As I am proud of you? 

A hero of the Legion, of the Legion Etrangere, 

With medals on my tunic blue (of war, my triumph's share) ; 

Ah, mother, from your garden rare, my childhood's garden fair, 
Pluck me a rose, . . . and pin it where, . . . 

My medals shall show there. 

Ill 



THE TALE OF ''GUESS" 



THE TALE OF "GUESS" 

"Guess. Hero Guess," said Mac, from Inverness; 

" 'Tis a riddle none the less ; . . . 

That as brave a man as he, in a soldier's cemetery, 
Should lie without a cross, just as a sign to bless; 
And none to mourn his loss, at roll call or at mess." 

"Guess. Hero Guess," said Bill from .Old Galves^ ; 
"God knows his loneliness; . . . 

French heroes are so many, it wouldn't help him any 

To kneel and cross and pray, while guns still blaze away; 

But when God calls *at res',' there'll be angels there to bless 

That pauloo, that we call the saintly Guess." 

And I say: 

Yes, ah, yes ! There'll be God and happiness, . . . 

To bless that hero Guess, though he lies with numberless 

Unnamed, . . . perhaps unmarked, ... in No Man's wilderness. 

With sadness, aye with gladness, yes, . . . 
I'll tell the tale of Hero Guess. 

We were feeling wet and grouchy, on that first day on the front. 
And were looking just for any chance to edge our tempers blunt; 

When along came Guess— 

(God bless that Frenchman Guess). 

His face was blood and dirt ; he yelled as if it hurt ; 

GUESS! . . . GUESS! . . . 

One arm was hanging limp, ... his other like an imp, . . . 

Passed out a devil's jig with maddening dizziness. . . . 

"GUESS! . . . GUESS! . . ." he yelled as 'long the trench he 

dashed : 
"GUESS! . . . GUESS! . . ." as down the line he smashed. 

"I guess you're on my toes," growled Bill, 

And trips him with an ugly spill ; 

But Guess looked not a once to see 

Who knocked him do"\vn so wantonly. 
"GUESS! . . . GUESS! . . ." he begged, as on he rushed; . . . 
"GUESS! . . . GUESS! . . ." as past the guns he brushed 

"I guess I'll stop your jinks," Mac said. 

And whacks his Jeriy * on his head. 



Steel shrapnel helmet. 

112 



THE TALE OF ''GUESS" 



The pauloo dropped, but got up red; 

"GUESS ! , . . GUESS ! . . ." and down the ranks he sped, 

And wildly waved that hand outspread, 

And never marked the blood he bled. 

Which ever more and more he shed. 

Ah, Hero Guess ! What wretchedness ! 

We were a herd so pitiless. 

Guess knocked a Canuck f in his run, 

Who gave him "Halt," with pointed gun; 

And then in French, . . . Lord ! . . . How they raved, 

And how that poor old flipper waved ; . . . 

But that Oanuck knew what he said, 

And with Guess made the Q. M.t shed. 

"Ha, ha ! . . ." we laughed, "Canuck's guessing too," . . . 

And wondered why they madly flew. 

Ah, Hero Guess! What grand noblesse 

Could equal your keen steadiness. 

Then, gad! . . . The air was filled with snakes. 

With fangs that gripped with poisoned aches. . . . 

We gasped, we choked, . . . we writhed, we tore, . . . 

As gas clouds on the death wind bore 

A fiery breath, from hell swift sent, . . . 

And then, ... we knew . . . what "guess" had meant. 

We cursed our clumsy wits and swore, 

(Though prayers were fitter on that score) 

The Huns were making with their gas, 

That gouged our vitals as with brass; . . . 

So every man threw down his gun. 

And wildly groped and tried to run. 

But in that cloud of greenish haze. 

We crawled and smothered in a daze, 

Until we heard the Canuck call : 

"We're coming boys. Don't move at all, . . . 

We've got a mask for every lad. 

This pauloo here's a prince, by gad. 

He'll help you as I pass 'em out; 

He'll hook 'em on, . . . good, strong and stout. 

He is a hero : . . . that's a cinch, . . . 



t Canadian; this one spoke French, 
% Quartermaster. 

113 



THE TALE OF ''GUESS'' 



And beat the gas, ... by just an inch. 
A happy guess, for all this mess, 
He's made of all that's manliness." 

So Guess came on with all the dope, 
And cut the burlap and the rope, 
And hung them on (as he knew right) 
One after one, the gas despite; 
And put a gas-mask on Mac, grim 
(The man who'd nearly done for him), 
And for big Bill, he did the same. 
Who hung his scorching head in shame ; 
Then came my turn, . . . the last of all, . . . 
And for me . . . there was none at all. 

Ah, Hero Guess. Your soul I bless: 

You gave your mask, . . . with willingness. 

And safe within his mask, ... I looked aside, 

And saw him there, ... as crucified. 

Each mask, he'd given out to the last one. 

And then his own, ... he gave me, . . . last alone. 

Ah ! Hero Guess ! You now, lifeless, 

Would be alive, but for noblesse. 

And then a smile called from that hero face. 
Called, . . . for my aid in his death struggle race, 
He'd have to win, ... to live. (I knew not then. 
That still he'd try to save more lives of men.) 

Ah! Happy Guess! Such gentleness. 

Alone can one of God possess. 

The trench behind we reached with frantic dash. 

While still he shrilled his GUESS! GUESS! GUESS! GUESS! 

! how I prayed for that brave hero there, . . . 

Whose life was hanging in that poisoned air. 

I tried to make him take my mask a while ; 

He waved it back with just a gentle smile ; 

And then he stopped and dropped, . . . just like a stone, 

While on his face the gas licked, ... to the bone. 

But, Hero Guess. You, . . . motionless, 

Still showed the way of mightiness. 

114 



THE TALE OF ''GUESS'' 



I dragged him then, a mile perhaps, ... or more; 

. . . When aid chanced near, ... I dropped there in his gore. 

For he was shot, . . . when first he gave the cry 

To save us from that worst of deaths to die. 

In quarters I came to, . . . and in a cot, 
Beside me lay our Guess, ... his face a clot; . . . 
But triumph, sang he, in his Marseilles grand, 
While his soul started marching to God's land. 

March ! Hero Guess ! . . . From War's distress, 

To God's bright shore of peacefulness. 

When cured at base, I went to Mac and Bill, 
And told them how he died. . . . They both were still. 
Mac's eyes grew wet. . . . Bill coughed and looked aside, 
And then I saw him try the gushing tears to hide. 
Mac said : "We ought to fix his . . . grave for him." 
Bill says : "And tiy to pray." Their eyes were dim. 

So then we went and searched among the graves, 
But they were like the ocean's countless waves. . . . 
So, we just chose a grave of freshest ground, 
. . . And Mac and Bill both carved a board I found, 
On which they cut a cross, . . . set up with care; 
Here's what you'll read, ... if you should happen there : 



A 

Hero came, 

And to our shame, 

We scourged him on his way; 

Saint Guess is how 

We call his name; 

He died for us 

That day 



115 



^l)ip ^lapet^ Collection 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 

A COMEDY 

BY 

Paul Myron 
Copyright, 1918, by P. W. Linebarger 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

Captain Courageux - Young, dashing, handsome, but over gen- 
erous. 

Michael Flaherty - His valet; typical wami-hearted Irish type, 

all devotion to his Captain Courageux. 

Marjorie Moore - - Millionairess. 

Jane Wilson - - - Her traveling companion and maid. 

Deck Stev^ard - - - (Really a Prussian spy). 

Deck Boy. 

Radio Operator. 

SYNOPSIS 

Place ------- Deck of a transatlantic steamer. 

Time -- A ten days' voyage across the Atlantic. 

Period - The present war. 

Customs Conventional. 

SCENE PLOT : Steamer chairs spread with rugs and a few books 
on wide deck with port windows opening from the staterooms 
behind. A sun canvas forms the background with space for exit 
and entrance right and left. 

PROPERTY PLOT : 1. Bundle of steamer rugs. 2. Refreshment 
service. 3. Greenback to be flashed up by fish line from upper 
deck. 4. Radiogram. 5. Large serving tray with a half dozen 
plates of soft powdered dough lightly worked over small tins. 

PUBLISHER'S NOTE : This comedy being protected by the copy- 
right laws, is in its following form designed only for the reading 
public, the stage rights being in every way reserved by the pub- 
lishers, who will upon application furnish information as to 
royalty for production. No charge is made for such production 
on the troopships of America or her Allies. 

MID-NATION PUBLISHERS 

Chicago 

MCMXVIII 

116 



prologue 



Where shall I find one thought as beauteous as the day, 
One note of song caught from the thrilling wood of life, 
One word of praise high-noted from a psalm to God, 
Or even yet a hieroglyph, a caveman*s mark 
That I may make its sound or sign a witness true, 
In days to come, with laurels from the tree of life. 
To speak upon the tombs of those who kept us free? 

Not in the Niebelung story of our allied host. 
That proves the courage of the British brave and strong. 
The glory of the French and sounds Italians praise 
With ringing cheers for BelgiunrCs stand for Liberty, 
And paints brave emblems on the flags of each ally; 
Nor in the song of those who live without a tear. 
Who fight without a curse and die without a moan, 
In this great struggle 'gainst War's evil, night and hell. 
As dying they bequeath their youth and soldier strength 
To God and our great cause for freedom to all men. 

Why may I not their courage sing in such brave themes? 
Ah, no, not thus, ah, no! they would not have it so. 

So then, the thought, the song, the praise, the mystic sign. 
Til find in just a tale of love and war, . . . of those 
Who sailed across the sea; went singing on to France. 

117 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



ACT I-SCENE I 

Enter Captain Courageux smoking^ sits down on deck chair and 

reads and re-reads a letter meditatingly , then despondently sinks 

hack OrS Flaherty enters with a bundle of strapped steamer rugs. 

Capt. Flaherty, you are the one man I can count on at all times, 
just as my father did during the long years you served him. 

Fla. Thank you, sor, and I hope that I'll serve you as long and 
plaze you as well. 

Capt. I have bad news— such bad news that I would never tell 
any one else in the whole world, save you. 

Fla. Sure and you're not deserving of bad news, sor. 

Capt. Well, I must tell you at all hazards. You see, I was very 
careless with the fortune my father left me and the money was gone 
almost before I knew what the fortune amounted to. In fact, I 
simply turned the fortune over to my manager. (Walks hack and 
forth) Heigh-ho. I've got to the end of the rope at last. {Picks 
up letter) Listen, Flaherty, while I read you this letter. (Reads) 

We regret to inform you that the advance of the ten thousand 
dollars which we recently made you through our broker on your 
alleged prospective inheritance from your Uncle Lord Bayou, will 
have to he returned to us with the fees and interest in full, or 
else a criminal prosecution will speedily follow on the charge of 
getting money under false pretenses, since we now understand that 
it is your cousin and not you tvho is really the sole heir of your 

uncle. LEEDEM AND BlEEDEM, 

Counselors at Law. 

Fla. (Shaking his fist) Thej^ ought to have another member to 
that firm by the name of Trapem, and then the name would be com- 
plete : Trapem, Pleedem and Bleedem. 

Capt. Yes, but they are justified in what they are doing, for I 
found out just before we sailed that the broker, in order to make an 
extortionate commission, had me sign a paper in which I claimed to 
be my uncle's sole heir, when in fact I thought I was still getting the 
money from my father's estate. 

Fla. I'm soriy, sor. But why not pay these li-yers off? 

Capt. Why not pay them off? Look, Flaherty. (Exhibits five 
dollar bill) That's all the money I've got to last me in the whole 
world, until I join my regiment. Just five dollars. (Exhibits and 
caresses the bill which is suddenly blown away by the wind. Both 
groan as it flies overboard) 

118 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Fla. Faith! and money sure do have wings. (Aside) The 
brave, good man. Sure, and he gave to the Rid Cross, what little 
he got out of that ten thousand dollars that the rascals are trying to 
cheat him out of. (Aloud) Well, there's one thing off our minds : 
we won't have to be worrying to know how long that five dollars will 
be after lasting us. So now, sor, I'm ready to hear what's to be 
done. 

Capt. (Looking cautiously about) Listen. Do you think any- 
one can hear through those portholes'? 

Fla. No. Nor through the floor of the deck, either. 

Capt. Well, then, Flaherty, here's what I'm going to try to do 
just as soon as I've gone over the Top once more. (Very confiden- 
tially) You see there is a very rich young lady, . . . 

Fla. Sure and I'm all ears. What's more interesting than being 
a young lady and rich as well. 

Capt. A young lady whose father wanted me to many her, just 
because I am the son of my father. 

Fla. Sure, and the fathers had no mother-in-laws. 

Capt. My father had an estate manager, named Moore, who 
went to America with his earnings, got started in the wholesale meat 
business, and through money which my father advanced him finally 
built up a great stockyard. Moore made a very large fortune, and 
in nearly every letter to my father he would say that he was bringing 
up his daughter to marry me. My father laughingly favored it in 
all except one way. 

Fla. What was that? What could be the impediment? 

Capt. That there should be a true love affair. You see, Moore 
was an eccentric wild Irishman, something like you, Flaherty, . . . 

Fla. (Bowing) Thank you for the well earned compliment. 

Capt. . . . and forgot in his affection for my father, that his 
daughter might have something to say about the marriage. I pre- 
sume Mr. Moore thought that the only way that he could ever repay 
my father was to marry the great fortune he had made back into 
the family which had originally started it. Ah, how like the song of 
a passing bird does the story of such gratitude appear in these days 
of avarice! The world is full of beneficiaries, but alas, the bene- 
factors have all gone to heaven. 

Fla. And this young lady's father, . . . has he gone . . . 

Capt. Yes. He died some time ago, leaving all his well and 
honestly earned millions to that daughter, his only child. 

Fla. Where's the pretty daughter? 

119 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Capt. How do you know that she's pretty *? 

Fla. Oh, sure she must be, to ever think of maiTying the likes 
of you. 

Capt. Enough of the blarney, Flaherty. Can't you be serious? 
Why, I don't know whether she's as pretty as a May-flower or as ugly 
as a junk cart. But I do know that if I can find her that I will 
immediately make her an offer of marriage. 

Fla. Sure and are you that bad in love with her? 

Capt. Why, man, I never saw her ; but I've simply got to marry 
her to save myself from the sharp horns of this dilemma. 

Fla. Where is she, this young lady of the tin, ... I mean of 
the treasury? 

Capt. That's what I'd like to know myself. All that I could 
find out in New York was that she had sailed to join the Red Cross 
at the Front. That means, I suppose, that she has taken the South- 
em route. Ah, it will be disastrous, if she won't have me when I 
find her. 

Fla. Ah, she's simply got to have you, sir. 

Capt. My dear Flaherty, will you do me a great favor? 

Fla. Sure I will, if I've got breath enough. 

Capt. Well, then I, ... I want you to go to jail for me a little 
while after we land. 

Fla. Go to jail? One of those things that sometimes they spell 
{Spells) j-a-i-1 and sometimes g-a-o-1? 

Capt. Yes, that's all. Yes, just go to jail and stay quiet there, 
while I go for the Top again to hear that sweet music of the guns, 
and see the Punch and Judy shows of the Huns with their hands 
stuck up before their faces crying "Merci." And then when once 
more I have made the Top I'm going to search out the fair lady and 
ask her as a matter of my family honor to pull me out of the quag- 
mire of the threatened disgrace. 

Fla. I'm not so much interested in anything else as T am in that 
jail you're speaking of. You say that I'll be there for awhile. Well, 
how long might that "awhile" be? 

Capt. Oh, that depends. Perhaps, only a month. At all events, 
I should hardly think that it would take me more than two or three 
months to get my leave of absence and then with respectable delib- 
eration make my proposition. But rest assured, Flaherty, that as 
soon as I am married I will pay back the money and immediately 
obtain your release. 

Fla. And what sort of a jail would that be? Would it be one 

120 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



of those real jails where they feed you on scouse and then shoot you 
if you try to run away ? 

Capt. I think that it will be in Old Bailey. 

Fla. Old Bailey? The place where they are hanging all the 
prisoners'? {With a wry face) Of course, if you say that I've got 
to go to jail, I'll do it, . . . but please, sir, do try to save me from 
Old Bailey, and just let me pick out a nice little quiet jail in the 
country somewhere, where no one will know, and where perhaps they 
will have a tender-hearted lady for a jailer. 

Capt. Well, I am afraid that it will have to be in Old Bailey, 
but we will know as soon as we land, when they come up with the 
warrant. 

Fla. The warrant? Why, do they have to warrant your misery 
in jail? 

Capt. No, the warrant is the order for my imprisonment— for 
getting money under false pretenses. 

Fla. And will they take you to Old Bailey? 

Capt. No, not me. They will take you in my place. 

Fla. And how's that? How will you manage it? 

Capt. Well, Flaherty, from now on, you are Captain Courageux 
and I am your respectful valet Michael Flaherty. No one on the 
boat knows us; we're both the same size; you wear my clothes and 
I'll wear yours. 

Fla. But, sir, I haven't the edycashun to pretend to be Captain 
Courageux. 

Capt. Oh, that's all right, Flaherty. You won't need much 
education in jail or even here on board the ship for that matter, 
if you will only be a little careful of your grammar and your brogue 
when you get excited. Ha, ha, Flaherty, I have often wondered at 
your chameleon-like use of our good, old mother tongue. Sometimes 
you speak with all the care and precision of a gentlemanly president 
of a ladies' college, and then one would never think that you had 
even heard a brogue. But when you get excited— then, ha ha. . . . 
What do they call it; flannel-mouth? Well, whatever it is, just be 
careful on that one score, Flaherty, and then you won't need much 
other education, particularly as I said, when you are in jail. 

Fla. Not much edycashun in jail. Ah, yes! But then I'm too 
much like a watch. 

Capt. Too much like a watch ? A timepiece? 

Fla. Yes, for anyone by looking at my face can tell how the 
works are going inside. 

121 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Capt. Well, let the works run down then, for you must indeed 
do as I say if I ever expect to redeem my honor as an officer and a 
gentleman. I could never find the courage to go to the Top again, 
if I did not know that the obligation of the law had a hostage in 
you, even while I was a fugitive in the face of the guns to fight for 
the land I love. Oh, how glorious to think that I shall soon be back 
with the brave boys at the Front. 

Fla. What! Ye don't mane to say that it's back to the Front 
yer going before those terrible wounds are healed ? 

Capt. Why, Flaherty, my wounds are already healed . . . 
nearly. See! One month ago that arm was as stiff as a jail wall, 
and now look at it! {Waves an imaginary sahre) 0-och! 
{Grimaces with pain and then laughs) Ha, ha. Oh, I just reached 
a little too high that time, and this sea voyage will put mettle into 
that lazy arm. 

Fla. And that shrapnel smash on your back? 

Capt. What do I care about my back? The Prussians will never 
see my back. And then look— that back's nearly as good as ever. 
{Leans over) O-och {Grimacing with pain) Ha, ha. Just a lit- 
tle too sudden, that's all. 

Fla. And that hole that the sniper drove straight through your 
chest? 

Capt. lOh, a mere bagatelle now. I've almost forgotten it. A 
month ago, Flaherty, you remember how I'd bowl over with the pain 
every time I'd cough. Now just look at me. {Coughs cautiously) 

Fla. {Running up in alarm) Look out! Don't do it. Captain, 
or sure you'll be coughing blood in a minute. 

Capt. {Recovering himself) If you had your way, I'd be the 
rest of the war in the hospital, and miss all the fun and glory that's 
still waiting for me over there. And think what a patriotic thing 
you're doing; you'll be serving your country there in jail, while I 
am serving it on the front. Ha, ha. You'll be a hero yet. And, 
ha, ha, perhaps get a medal, too. And say, Flaherty, it will be a 
pity if I shan't be able to get you out of jail to act as my best man 
at the wedding. 

Fla. Well, you might string the courting out long enough for 
me to serve the sintince, which shure would be doing me a favor, to 
let me see at all evints, that yer properly drissed for such a gloreeus 
occashion for the young lady. 

Capt. No. There won't be much courting, Flaherty. You see 
I am going to report for service and duty as soon as I land. And 

122 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



if things are pretty hot up on the line, I surely shall get a chance 
to go over the Top again before the young lady is located. 

Fla. Ah, you brave, gallant gintleman, just like yer father. 
Look at the medals ye've already got for leading your men over the 
Top. Why do you want to go back and let the Huns finish up their 
murther of ye? (Shakes his head) 

Capt. Well, Flaherty. Enough of this sob-business. Now for 
the team work. Go down into my cabin— change quickly, before 
they commence to know us— leave your clothes there and then I'll 
run in and change myself. Hurry now. {Exit Captain. Flaherty 
tarries and then cries out) Is it that I would go to jail for him? 
Why I'd go— I'd go to hell for him. 

ACT I-SCENE II 

Port window opens cautiously. Marjorie's face appears. Talks to 

Jane within the cabin. 

Jane. (From the interior) Have they gone? 

Mar. Yes. Isn't that the funniest thing you ever heard of, . . . 
and to think that he should really be he^ the man whom I have dreamt 
of from my childhood; Captain Courageux, . . . and on this very 
ship. Oh, how handsome he is, more so, oh, ever so much more so, 
than even his handsome pictures. Pshaw! I wish that he would 
not make that foolish change with his valet. How shall I ever get 
to know him, if he is a valet ? Why, the whole ship would be talking 
about me, and they would not let me join the Red Cross. But, oh, 
it will be such fun to watch them and they won't know that we 
know at all. What an adventure! (Reflects) Oh, oh, Jane! 
What a chance for real fun on the way over. Oh, ha, ha, ha. . . . 

Jane. What is it. Miss Marjorie? 

Mar. Why, I have an idea, ... oh, would it be proper? Oh, 
I mean, why shouldn't we change places also? 

Jane. Oh, I would never know how to act, and beside, . . . 

Mar. Now, you must not say no, Jane. We'll have such an 
adventure out of it. I am sure that you will do as well as his valet. 
Now, do not say no : from this time on, you are Miss Marjorie 
Moore and I am your companion and maid, Jane Wilson. Hurry. 
Let us change quickly, before anyone knows us. 

Jane. All right, ... if you don't think that it will lead to 
harm. 

3Iar. And oh, Jane. Supposing that the funny valet should 
really fall in love with you. How could you prevent it? 

123 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Jane. Heaven preserve me. I hadn't thought of that. 

Mar. I'll tell you, Jane. Make yourself up as old and ugly as 
you can. 

Jane. Perhaps even that won't stop him. You know the Irish 
are gTeat in love and war. 

Mar. And then he may want to marry you for your money, 
Jane. 

Jane. Let him try. I'm Irish myself, you know. {Exeunt pre- 
cipitously) 

ACT I-SCENE III 

Flaherty enters disguised as Captain Courageux, and tripping over 

his spurs and sword as he walks. Enter Deck Steward right in 

answer to call from Flaherty. 

Fla. Has my man engaged a chair from you for me yet ? 

Ste. No, sir. {Aside) He's Irish but not the sort that I think 
that we can use in our game. 

Fla. Well, place me a chair somewhere and call my man. 
Steward arranges chairs and exit left. Captain Courageux enters 

left disguised in Flaherty's clothes. 

Fla. Here, Mike. Get my chair ready for me. 

Capt. Any place you would like to have your chair, sir? {In 
low voice) You're doing well, Flaherty. Watch out sharp. Here 
is a lady coming that you can practice on, but don't forget who you 
are. Watch your brogue. 

Fla. {Loud voice) Go down and press my dinner clothes. 
{Exit Captain right; enter Steward, and Jane left dressed in Mar- 
jorie's garments with her face made up like a hag) 

Ste. This is your chair, madam. 

Fla. {Aside, looking at Jane) Heaven protect me. Who 
wished that thing on board'? 

Jane. Good morning, sir. {Flaherty gets up as if to run) 
Pray do not disturb yourself. 

Fla. {Bowing from the entanglement of his sword and spurs) 
Why, how do you do? {Aside) Is that a mask? Who wouldn't 
disturb himself at that? 

Jane. {Engagingly) Lovely weather and an unusually calm 
sea. 

Fla. {Cautiously) Yes. {Aside) Wliat a fright! But as 
long as I am an officer and a gentleman, I've got to act like one. 

124 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Jane. Do you cross the Atlantic frequently ? 

Fla. Oh, yes, ma'am. Me and my valet travel all the time. You 
see my name is Captain Courageux and all I have to do is to travel 
and spend my money. 

Jane. Ah, quite an interesting life, . . . rather. 

Fla. {Nervously) Yis, and it do git to be a bit bothersome, for 
iver since I graduated from the University of Oxford, Sandhurst, 
. . . and, ... of course Dublin, I've been traveling all the toime. 

Jane. I suppose that you speak several lang-uagesi, having 
traveled so much. 

Fla. I do that, ma'am. I'm particularly fond of speaking Chi- 
nese and the, . . . well, the nigger langwidges. May be you speak 
them yerself, and if so, plaze be so kind as to stahrt right off with the 
conversation in either of thim. 

Jane. {Suppressing a laugh) Where do you reside"? 

Fla. Well, . . . hem, ... I have a castle alongside; well, in 
Wales, and a pretty fair sized risidince in London and three con- 
vanient places in France. 

Jane. You must be fond of France, I presume, since you have 
three places there. 

Fla. Yis. The Paraysians, too, . . . and just to turn the topic 
of conversation, I might mintion that I niver could understand that 
there wor justice in naming that terrible poison after the color of 
the grane and the foine city of Paris. 

Jane. Are you going to be in France long"? 

Fla. Well, that depuids. Ye see oi'm going to sthay first in 
London. 

Jane. How long will you be detained there? 

Fla. {Jumping up excitedly) {Aside) I wonder who told her? 
{Aloud) Detained, did ye say? 

Jane. Yes. Delayed on your pleasure travel. 

Fla. {Sitting down) {Aside) Begorra. I thought that she 
had riferince to Old Bailey? {Aloud) That depinds upon the way 
that Captain Courageux, ... I mane me man, . . . behaves to git 
me out. . . . No, ... I mane, . . . upon circumstances. {Aside) 
What a flannel-mouthed muss I'm making of it! I'll try to put 
meself right by asking some questions. {Aloud) To whom might 
I have the honor of talking to? 

Jane. My name is Moore, . . . Marjorie Moore. 

Fla. {Excitedly) Was your father in the mate business? 

Jane. He was. He owned stockyards. 

125 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Fla. Was he born on the ould sod"? Did he ever work for the 
Courageux ? 

Jane. Yes. 

Fla. {Calling to Steward, who passes left right) Stooward! 
If they sell refrishments on this ship, bring me at once a bottle of 
whiskey and for this lady the biggest box of candy ye can find. 
(Exit Steward) 

Jane. I shall have to decline your offer of hospitality. 

Fla. Decline, is if? Oh, sure and ye'll niver decline in respect 
to your father's intentions toward Captain Courageux, and besides 
there is that stooward coming along now. {Enter Steward, follaived 
hy Captain Courageux) 

Ste. Would you mind, sir, giving me the money for your order? 

Fla. Sure not. {To Captain Courageux) Here, Mike. Go 
and give the stooward a twinty dollar bill out of that bag of money 
I have in me cabin. 

{Captain gesticulates in protest behind Jane's chair) 

Fla. Go and do as I tell ye without any of your monkey signs. 
I know what I'm doing. {Exit Captain, despairingly followed hy 
Steward) 

Fla. Now, me dear young lady, if there is anything that I can 
do to— plaze ye, don't be bashful about making yer wants known. 
{Enter Steward) 

Ste. Your man says, sir, that he can find no money. 

Fla. Well, let him kape on looking for it the rist of the voyage 
if he wants to. 

Ste. Do you wish to have an investigation made, sir"? 

Fla. Sure and make it a good, quick wan, too, I'm busy, in an 
interview with this lady. {Drawing his chair closer to Jane) Now 
the reason why, I'd like to be after showing you some hospitality is 
because I used to know yer father. 

Jane. Yes, he was greatly indebted to your father for many 
favors. {Aside) I'm glad that Miss Marjorie posted me in that 
regard. 

Fla. Oh, don't mintion such trivial matters, for your father was 
the finest man I ever knew. {Enter Steward) 

Ste. First officer's compliments, sir, and says that a thorough 
investigation will be made immediately. 

Fla. Ah, go away with yer compliments. Don't ye see that I've 
got a business appointment with this lady? {Exit Steward) 

Fla. Now, my dear lady, to get down to the business in hand, 
allow me to congratulate ye, upon your anticipated wedding to Cap- 
tain Courageux. 

126 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Jane. Whaf? Many Captain Courageux. What you*? 

Fla. No, not me, . . . but, well, me man, I mane the Cap- 
tain, . . . 

Jane. What do you mean"? Are you not Captain Courageux? 

Fla. Well, ye see, dear, kind lady, ... his father, no, my 
father, had such respect for your father that the two fathers having 
a fatherly feeling, thought father-loik that your father and his 
father, ... I mean my father, as regards your father, . . . being 
already fathers of such foine children, might as well be father-in- 
laws as well as fathers all in the same family. Ha, ha, do you 
understand ? 

Jane. I hope that you are not trifling with me, sir. I don't 
understand a word of what you say. 

Fla. (Aside) Oh, it's this flannel-mouthed brogue that's come 
on me again. (Rubbing his head perplexed) (Aloud) And 
nayther do Oi. (Aside) Oh, what a glorious refuge of peace, Old 
Bailey would be, now! 

Jane. May I ask you to explain yourself, sir? 

Fla. (Dejectedly) I mean that if you marry me man, that I 
will make a man just as good as Captain Courageux, . . . that is as 
myself, out of him. 

Jane. You evidently hold yourself rather in esteem. (Enter 
Steivard) 

Ste. First officer's compliments, sir, and says that they have 
enough evidence to warrant putting your man in irons and locking 
him up in the brig, . . . that there have been other complaints, and 
that all the thieving has been directly traced to your valet. 

Fla. What! Have they locked him up? 

Ste. They have indeed. (Aside) This is a ten-strike for us. 
(Exit left) 

Jane. (Preparing to leave. With scorn) So this is the way. 
Captain Courageux, that you insult me with insane proposals to 
marry your servant, whom you have had locked up on your complaint 
for being a thief. Were you not the son of a gentleman who 
befriended my father I would summon the ship's officers to demand 
an apology for the insult; but as it is, I will merely bid you good 
day. (Exit left) 

Fla. Hivins! ^\niat a botch I have made of it. Killed the 
goose that was to lay the golden eggs, . . . got me master locked 
up. Hivins! What a fool I am! Just plain flannel-mouth I 



127 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



ACT I-SCENE IV 

Enter rights Marjorie. 

Mar. Excuse me, sir, is this Miss Moore's seat? 

Fla. It is, miss. (Aside) What a beauty! As sweet as a 
whole flower-garden ! 

Mar. 1 am her maid and have come to bring her these deck 
robes. 

Fla. Ah, it's her maid you are. Well, I'm glad to know you, 
for perhaps you can help me, seeing that all us serving folk must 
stick together. 

Mar. What ! Are you also a ser\"ant ? 

Fla. Uh, . . . well, you know a captain in the army is what in 
highfalootin talk is sometimes termed a servant, so I present myself; 
Captain Courageux (Deep how) a servant of yourself and the 
people. And I would be asking the favor for you to help me get 
my master, ... I mean, . . . my valet out of the ship's lock-up. 

Mar. Indeed ! I can't understand why you should ask me. 

Fla. Well, beautiful j^oung lady, seeing as you're her maid, I 
thought that you'd speak a kind word to Miss Moore and tell her 
not to report me to the ship's officers, for if they get us both locked 
up they are sure to get the right man. (Aside) There I go again. 
what a hoddy-doddy fool I am. 

Mar. Why not ask this service elsewhere? 

Fla. Well, you see, I'm such a bungler that I've got the best 
man in the whole world locked up and you're the only one on the 
ship that I feel like asking to do me a favor. 

Mar. What is he in the lock-up for? 

Fla. For being a thief, which he isn't at all. 

Mar. How much did he steal? 

Fla. He never stole nothing. It's all that smooth, pasty-voiced 
steward's work. He did the whole Hunnish work, and for a reason 
that I'll make him answer for before I leave this ship. Ah, here he 
comes now. I'll kill him and save the hangman the trouble. 

Mar. Please do not complicate matters with your threats. I 
want to question the steward. (Enter Steward) How much has 
this gentleman's valet stolen? 

Ste. (Aside) Ah, here's a chance for some little side-money. 
(Aloud) Well, one of the cabin boys says that he lost fifty dollars 
and another has been thieved out of seventy-five dollars, not men- 
tioning my own loss of a hundred, and we're poor men, Miss, and 
can ill afford it. 

128 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Fla. If any of yez ever had that much money I bet it was 
because you stole it yerselves. Get out of here before I throw you 
overboard. 

Mar. Let us have no threats or violence. I'll just settle the 
matter by asking" Miss Moore to reimburse these men who have lost 
their money, and then I hope that the ship's officers will release your 
valet. (To Steward) If this money is paid to you, will you promise 
me that Captain Courageux's valet shall be released? 

Ste. I do indeed, Miss, for he has been locked up on my com- 
plaint with some of my companions as witnesses, and if I tell the 
ship commander that I think that it is all a mistake he will certainly 
release him. 

Mar. Then if you will come to Miss Moore's cabin in a little 
while you shall receive the money. {Exit Marjorie) 

Fla. Ah, you smooth cut-throat. ... So you're the self-con- 
fessed instigator of my, ... of that gentleman's being locked up. 

Ste. I'll have you locked up, too, if it suits my convenience. 
You don't know who I am yet. But you'll find out who's mnning 
this ship before the voyage is ended. {Exit Steward) 

Fla. Well, I'm glad I didn't kill him. I guess that I've got 
enough trouble on my hands already without hunting for more. 

ACT II-SCENE I 

(Towards the end of the voyage) 

Marjorie and Captain Courageux seated together on the deck. 

Mar. Oh, how quickly the days have flown. It seems as if we 
had always been together. 

Capt. I have never in all my life been so happy. Oh, what a 
pleasure to be with you. 

Mar. Yes. But I am so sorry that we are both mere servants. 

Capt. {Gritting his teeth) Yes, it is hard to be a servant, par- 
ticularly when one is in the employment of such a desperately eccen- 
tric man as Captain Courageux. I am sure from what he tells me 
that the ship commander would never have released me from that 
black hole in the brig had it not been for your pity on my condition. 

Mar. And now ... the journey is nearly at an end, and we 
must part, . . . forever. 

Capt. Never, . . . never. {Impulsively) I love you. I won't 
have you working this way. You, . . . you don't know who I am. 

129 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Mar. No, that's the trouble. I don't know enough about you. 
All I know is that you have a very peculiar employer, who lets you 
be locked up on a steward's complaint. Please tell me who you are, 
so that I can get that theft accusation out of mind. 

Capt. Oh, I love you. Isn't that enough? Isn't it enough to 
tell you that I'll go as your slave to the ends of the world to gratify 
your slightest whim, . . . that I will be anything, everywhere, any- 
where, ... if you will only be my wife? 

Mar. Why don't you marry Miss Moore ? She has such a world 
of money that she really doesn't know what to do with it. 

Capt. Oh, hang Miss Moore, . . . no, I don't mean that, I mean 
bless her good soul, . . . no, I don't mean that either. I only mean 
that I want you, want you, poor and penniless as you are. I don't 
know much about you, but I love you, even in your lowly station 
as a servant, and I will be gloriously happy to make you my wife. 

Mar. Why notf You are a servant, too, and no better than I in 
that regard. 

Capt. I know it. But please take me as yotir servant and hus- 
band. 

Mar. Well, I suppose that I really should be looking for some 
husband to support me, since it appears that Miss Moore may marry 
Captain Courageux, and then I fear that I shall lose my position, 
for he is so eccentric, that I could not get on with him in the same 
family at all. 

Caj^ft. {Jumping up excitedly) What! My, . . . He marry 
Miss Moore with her millions'? 

Mar. Well, why not? They have been together so much, and she 
seems to like him because he is so queer. 

Capt. Ha, ha, ha, . . . that's a joke that even fish would 
laugh at. 

Mar. Why is your laughter so hilarious? 

Capt. Ha, ha, ha. lOh, how I wish that I might tell you. Ha, 
ha. Has Fla, . . . he, . . . proposed to her yet? 

Mar. Yes. Miss Moore told me that first he wanted to marry 
her off to you, and that when she would under no consideration have 
you, that he politely offered himself. I think that he, however, being 
an officer and a gentleman, hasn't any thought of the millions that 
he would control by such a marriage. Would you make such a mar- 
riage if you could, just for her millions? 

Capt. Ah, let me tell you. There was a time before I met you, 
that money suddenly meant something, everything to me. For a 

130 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



little while it seemed to be almost as big a thing as going out to 
offer your strength, your heart, yes, your life to your country; 
almost as much as the joy of going to the Top with the thrill of 
the barrage before you. Yes, I desired money, for to me it meant 
honor. But you have now come into my life and sweetened all its 
impulses, and even glorified my undying love for my country. No, 
. . . even as much as I need money at this moment, . . . those mil- 
lions no longer tempt me, for I love you so much that first of all I 
am going to be truthful to you and the whole world, and then when 
I am free, . . . 

Mar. What ! When you are free ? Are you already married ? 

Capt. Not married. It's an obligation of a more sinister sort. 
But I am going to pay it in the coin of truth. 

Mar. {Trying to suppress her emotion) Ah, I believe that Miss 
Moore may want me. Excuse me. {Exit Marjorie, right) 

ACT II-SCENE II 

Enter Flaherty, left. In great excitement. 

Fla. Ha, ha, hurray! We're saved. We're saved. 

Capt. Why, what do you mean"? Saved whaf? 

Fla. Well, I'm engaged to be married, ... to be married. 

Capt. What, to be married, ... to be married? Again? 

Fla. Yes. To the wonderful lady of the treasury. 

Capt. Wliy you already have one wife, . . . too good for you at 
that. 

Fla. Yes, but being engaged don't mean that I'll have to many 
her, does it? 

Capt. Absolutely. What did you intend to do? 

Fla. To get engaged, borrow the money from her and escape 
from Old Bailey. 

Capt. Don't you see how dishonorable that would be. . . . to 
blight a poor woman's affections, . . . 

Fla. She's not poor, she's rich. . . . 

Capt. You don't mean to say that you would get money that 
way? 

Fla. That's the way you intended to get it, wasn't it? 

Capt. Yes, but I really intended to marry her. 

Fla. Well, then, do it. Take my place. 

Capt. But I don't want to now. 

Fla. Well, I won't want to then. 

131 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Capt. Then? What do you mean by "Then'"? 

Fla. When I get the money, . . . (Sings) the beautiful, heau- 
tiful money, the heauti . . . 

Capt. What do you want to do with the money? 

Fla. To give it to you to pay those li-yers off for their rascal 
conspiracy, and then me and me family for the rest of our lives will 
work night and day to pay her back. 

Capt. Ah, God bless your honest, faithful heart, Flaherty. 
Really, anyone who married a woman just for her money is little 
better than a blonde beast. I didn't know what a cur I was until 
your words proved it to me. But now, . . . now, . . . I'm going 
to face the music, even though it be the Rogue's March. I'm going 
to Old Bailey myself. I'm going to win the love of the best woman 
outside of my mother who ever lived. And to do it I must be truth- 
ful myself. 

Fla. Might I timidly inquire who the fortunate lady is? 

Capt. The queen of my whole world, though merely a maid. 

Fla. Ah, Miss Moore's maid, and a fine girl she is, too. 

Capt. Yes, and worth the long, cruel road through Old Bailey. 

Fla. Ah, don't talk about Old Bailey, sir. I'm crazy with the 
thought of it, and the mention of the name puts me mouth full of 
flannel. Why, you can't go to Old Bailey, because the girl would 
never maiTy you if you were convicted. What would your children 
say? 

Capt. Ah, Flaherty. Think of what ifonr children would say if 
you were sent there. 

Fla. Ah, yes; but that's different. Ye see, I love ye, just as I 
loved your father. 

Capt. Yes, and I'm going to play the game square from now on. 
Any day now the warrant may be wired out, and then of course the 
ship's commander will put me in chains. 

Fla. I'll see that they not be after hanging any chains on those 
hero wounds. 

Capt. Why not? I deserve it. 

Fla. I'll not tell ye, now. I'll have to wait for developments. 

Capt. The developments will show that I'll play the game 
square. Oh, why couldn't this have all happened after we have won 
the war? (Exit Captain) 



132 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



ACT III-SCENE I 

Fla. Well, well, now here's a pretty pickle, something like a 
Donnybrook Fair. I know that he will go and give himself up, 
unless I prevent it at once. (Meditates) Ah, now I have it. Just 
a letter will straighten the whole muss out. Why didn't I think of 
it before? Yes, a letter. I'll go right down to the cabin at once 
and take me pen in hand for the first time in a lono: while. Yes, yes, 
that's better than trying to explain things, especially to a woman, 
for a letter is always silent and silence is the one thing in the whole 
world that a woman can never answer. Tra-la-la. I'll have it all 
neatly written in a jiffy and then I'll just slip it under Miss Moore's 
cabin door. Tra-la-la. 

ACT III-SCENE II 

Jane. (Entering with a letter in her hand) Did you ever read 
anything as ridiculous as this*? (Hands Marjorie the letter, who 
reads) 

Dear Kind Lady: 

I have great sorrow in informing you that I am not Captain 

Courageux, nor is Captain Courageux aboard this ship in any 

shape, manner or form. Please forgive us for pretending to he 

the Captain and his valet. Ifs all a terrible mistake which comes 

from my buyin>g the steamer tickets in a paivn shop, which had 

Captain Courageux's name on them. Please forgive us, kind 

lady, for being such liars, fo{r heaven only knows where these fine 

I gentlemen are, and please to tell the ship's officers that if any 

adiograms come for Captain Courageux's arrest, to kindly throw 

same overboard, as he can't be found. Dear, kind lady, far 

from being Captain Courageux, I am nothing but a poor laboring 

man with a wife and several grown daughter-in-laws to support— 

so you will see that it will be impossible for me to marry you, 

since my wife might object. Mr. Repentance. 

Mar. Ha, ha, ha. What a confession of the soul ! 
Jane. What! You laugh"? Do you not see how serious it all is"? 
3Iar. Serious? Why how can such a joke be serious'? 
Jane. Why it seems to me that the letter plainly shows that both 
of these men are impostors. 

Mar. Impostors'? Oh, I never could believe that. 

133 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Jane. Then why did they come directly beneath our window and 
deliberately make known to us their plans'? Does it not seem evident 
that they are seeking to entangle you for your money? 

Blar. Ah, money! Money! Is it always to be a millstone 
around my neck'? . . . Oh, I shall never mistrust the man who is 
playing the serv^ant, be he what may. He is so noble. So hand- 
some, ... 

Jane. Well, I am in your employ and love you better than any- 
one in the whole world, but I believe it to be my duty to warn you 
against these men. 

Mar, {Sobbing) I can't, ... I can't believe it. {Dries her 
tears) lO I will tell you what we will do. To-night as usual I will 
spend the evening on deck with the one whom we suppose to be really 
Captain Courageux and then I am sure that I shall be able to find out 
whether he really is the Captain or not. You know that I inherited 
a business and even detective instinct from my father. 

Jane. As you wish ; but please take care that he does not entan- 
gle you or your money. {Exeunt) 

ACT III-SCENE III 

Deck Boy. {Coming down the deck with a message. Calling) 
Message for Captain Courageux ! Message for Captain Courageux ! 

Capt. Ah, it's that confounded radiogram for my arrest. I'd 
rather be shot than accept it. Still, ... the man to the day and the 
day to the man. What will be, . . . will be. {Calling to Deck Boy 
as enter Flaherty) 1 am Captain Courageux. You may give me the 
message. 

Fla. {Stepping in between) No, he's not. It's me that's Cap- 
tain Courageux. 

Capt. (Low to Flaherty) Stand aside, Flaherty. I'm going to 
take the message and surrender myself. I'm going to Old Bailey. 

Fla. Surrinder yerself, is if? . . . and shure I'll never let you 
do that. {To Deck Boy) Take that message back where it came 
from for a minute and I'll be up and get it in a jiffy, with something 
to reward ye. {Exit Deck Boy) 

Capt. Well, there is no use in reading the message. I know what 
it means, so I am going straightway and surrender myself to the 
ship's commander. 

Fla. No, ye won't. It's me that will do that. {Enter Marjorie) 

Mar. Ah, perhaps I am intruding. 

134 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Capt. Indeed yon are not. You have come just in time to hear 
the news first hand for yourself. I must confess that I myself am 
Captain Courageux and this is my valet. 

Fla. Don't ye belave a word of it. It's me that's the rale Cap- 
tain Courageux and on account of some little misunderstanding with 
my money keepers, I'm gomg now to put mesilf in the kind hands 
of the ship commander, and thin for a brief season I ixpict to be 
boarding in jail to take a little time to go over me business accounts. 
Capt. Stand aside, Flaherty, with that flannel-mouth lying. {Ta 
Marjorie) I must also confess, that I, as Captain Courageux, am in 
serious trouble. I signed a paper without reading it because of the 
confidence I had in my broker, and it now appears that I am con- 
fronted with some sort of penal servitude for my carelessness. But, 
... if you will only wait for this cloud to roll away from my life, 
I'll try as long as I live to fill the whole world with sunshine for you. 
Fla. {In imitation of the Captain) Stand aside with that oily- 
mouthed lying. Ma'am, it is me that's Captain Courageux, and, . . . 
Enter Radiograph Operator. {To Flaherty) 1 believe that you 
are Captain Courageux, sir. The boy returned the message, but 
since it seems urgent, I thought best to deliver it myself. 

Fla. {Seizing the message) You're are right, me man, and if I 
had me loose change with me, I'd give ye a couple of sovereigns for 
having discriminated me so politely. But at all events, ye'll get yer 
reward in heaven, where the tips for faithful service are hanging 
from ivery golden lamp-post. {Exit Operator) 

Capt. How dare you possess yourself of that message, Flaherty ? 
{Forces the message away from Flaherty and reads) 

We humbly apologize for our recent rude letter, sent by an ill- 
advised misunderstanding. Kindly wire us for whatever funds 
you may need. We have to inform you that both your uncle and, 
his son were killed in an auto accident yesterday, thus niAaking you 
the sole heir to the fortune. Pleedem and Bleedem. 

Fla. {Most excitedly) Hun^ay! Hurray! Even Pleedem and 
Bleedem come when we need 'em. {Sees the sad expression on the 
Captain's face) Ah, yes, 'tis sad, 'tis sad indade! 

Capt. Oh, my poor uncle! Oh, my unfortunate cousin! How 
dreadful their death ! {Stands for a moment with bowed head) 
And now, if you will excuse me, I'll go to my stateroom. 

Mar. {With outstretched hands) Oh, Captain Courageux. I 
sympathize with you. 

Capt. {Looking at her fondly) Your sympathy is everything 
to me, 

135 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



Jane. It ought to be since it seems that she is to be your wife. 

Capt. (Turning and taking Marjorie's hands) Is it true'? Will 
you share my sorrows and joys forever *? 

Mar. [Comiwg slowly toward Mm. Finally placing her hands on 
his shoulders, while the others withdraw up-scene) I, . . . Oh, . . . 
I can^t, ... I must, . . . but no, ... I cannot tell you here. . . . 
(Bursts into tears, smiling as she lifts her face and allowing herself 
to be caught in the Captain's arms) 

Jane. (Tone of pleasant raillery) But, you don't know yet who 
she, who is to be your wife, really is. 

Capt. I don't know and I don't care, as long as she is mine. 
(Gathers her in his arms) I don't know who she is, but I know who 
she shall be : the devoted wife to Captain Courageux. 

Jane. And not only his wife, but the best wife in the whole 
world, and you have won her as could no other man, for she is not 
only a rare and wonderful woman, but she is, . . . well, she is Miss 
Marjorie Moore and I am only her paid but devoted companion and 
maid. 

Fla. (Posing excitedly as the tableau forms, and pointing off 
over the sea) Ah, I'd love to mark the rolling ocean here with a 
tombstone, to mark the grave where I've buried all my troubles ; just 
any sort of a tombstone marked with the words : "Here in this bot- 
tomless spot, just THIS SIDE OF FRANCE, are buried all the 
troubles of Michael Flaherty." 

Mar. Come, Jane, let us go to our staterooms. I won't be gone 
long, my Captain Courageux. (Exeunt Marjorie and Jane) 

Capt. (Waits till he is sure they are out of hearing) Well, Fla- 
herty, now that the aim of love is accomplished, now for the aim of 
war. There's no time to lose. 

Fla. What do you mean, sor? Any more Old Bailey? 

Capt. Hist! I mean that this ship is filled up with Prussian 
spies, who, when we get within sight of the coast of Ireland where 
we have shaped our course to fool those silly submarines, are going 
to try to take possession of the ship, with all its munitions, and then 
land in Ireland and start a revolution under Prussian leadership. 

Fla. Ha, ha, ho, ho, why the Kaiser and a whole million of his 
stick-ups couldn't lead a lame pig in Ireland. Ha, ha. 

Capt. Cut out the laughter, Flaherty. 

Fla. Well, thin, plaze cut out yer joking. 

Capt. I'm not joking, Flaherty. I know that it sounds ridic- 
ulous, but I am certain that there is a spy conspiracy on this ship, 



136 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



and that as soon as we get in the submarine danger zone that we will 
have to look out. 

Fla. Ha, ha. Submarine danger zone, is it ? Ye mane the soup- 
marine pleasure zone, for 'tis sure a pleasure to see them run from 
us like a lot of muddy crabs. And we sure will make the Kaiser eat 
his soup out of them one of these days. Why I've just come from 
burying all my troubles. Ha, ha. Why not call them dope-marines, 
since that's all that the Kaiser has to dope up his starving dupes. 
Ha, ha. But sure, there's one thing that they can't call them, and 
that's shoot-marines, for the only chance they ever have of hitting 
anything is when the target comes up and gives them a slap. Ha, ha. 
They're like the shooting stars; falling all around but busting them- 
selves up into nowhere. 

Capt. Yes. You are right, Flaherty, as far as the danger from 
the submarines go. They are as harmless as a school of porpoise. 
But what about these spies'? 

Fla. What about them yerself, sor. 'Tis you who's invinted 
them. If there's any spies on board, sure, they'll kape to themselves 
and go on picking each other's pockets, until they start a fight to 
their finish. 

Capt. Well, now, Flaherty, it's this way. We are in a bad pre- 
dicament. I dare not tell the officers of the ship, for we have all 
acted so crazy that they would be suspicious of anything I say, and 
the spies might get the upper hand before I could straighten matters 
out with them. {Lowering his voice) 1 know that there are spies on 
board, for when they had me locked up in the brig I heard them 
through a little steam pipe, as clear as through a speaking tube. It 
seems that they are making bombs, which they intend to secrete in a 
given part of the ship, and then rush with them out in different 
directions and threaten with death any who resist. 

Fla. But sure some of the ship's guard will catch them at it. 

Capt. No, because they are going to conceal their bombs so the 
guard will not know where they are. Thus the first thing to do is to 
find out just how they have got their bombs concealed. Now we'll 
start right off on the search. You keep to this end of the deck and 
I'll go to the other. {Exit Captain) 

Fla. Well. How shall I go about it? Sure 'twould be easier to 
find a fresh clam in the Sahara. I'm tired of the job already. 
{Yawns) Well, the only way to find out is to go around asking 
questions. Ah, here comes that blackguard stooward. He's vulgar 
enough to know anythmg. There he comes carrying a whole tray of 

137 



THIS SIDE OF FRANCE 



puddings out of the galley. {Puts out his foot and trips the steward, 
who with difficulty regains his balance with the tray) 

Fla. Excuse me, sor. 'Tis the rollmg of the ship. 

Ste. {Still most solicitous of the tray) I'll have you in the brig 
for that, you spying thief. 

Fla. Aha, spying it is, I am? And who told you*? {Aside) 
Every man's a thief to a thief and every man's a spy to a spy. 
{Aloud) Take that for your impudence to your betters. {Seizes 
and aims to throw one of the puddings, of ivhich the dough covering 
strikes the steward in the face, the concealed bomb within still remain- 
ing in Flaherty's hand) Ah, ha ! So that's the game is it— Bomb- 
pudding'? And I'll be making ye ate some of this bomb-pudding 
myself in a minute, if ye don't lead me to where all the other spies 
are. {Aims the bomh at the steward, ichom he follows in exit left. 
Loud explosion following exit) 

Fla. {Calling fro^m the distance amid great confusion and tramp- 
ing of feet) Bring me on the bomb-pudding. {Another explosion, 
yells, tramping and confusion) 

Capt. {Enters right) It's Flaherty. What does this all mean? 

Fla. {Again calling amid confusion) More bomb-pudding. 

Capt. {Sees the tray of puddings before him, picks one up, peals 
off the dough) What, ... a bomb? {Gathers them up in his arms 
and rushes out left, crying as he goes) I'm coming, Flaherty. 
{Other explosions and renewal of confusion) 

Marjorie and Jane enter, right. 

Mar. Oh, what can it be? What can it be? Where is Captain 
Courageux? 

Capt. {Enters left) It's all right. Flaherty saved the ship and 
the guard is putting all the spies in irons now. 

Fla. {Enters left, much bedraggled). That certainly wor a 
bomb toime. 

Capt. {Seizing him by the hand) The ship commander says 
you'll get a medal for this, Flaherty. 

Fla. Well, if they're going to give me a medal, tell them to shape 
it like a bomb-pudding with the letters. En route to France, and tell 
them that I'll never aecipt it until they give genooine gold medals to 
the wife of Captain Courageux and to her iligant serving lady, for 
^eing the manes of the discovery of the bomb-puddings. 

Curtain 



3138 



Paul Myron^s Books 

Mid-Nation Publishers (lAnebarger Brothers' successors) an- 
nounce the following completed or prospective publications by Paul 
Myron. The asterisk indicates those books that are illustrated. 

Kindly refer to the advertising section of this 
publication for editorial and other press commenda- 
tion. BOOKS ON CATHAY 
Our Chinese Chances.* Widely circulated throughout the 
English-speaking- globe, highly endorsed and commended 
by Sinologues for its sympathetic platform of mutual 
understanding between the Chinese and our own race. 
Although solid with original information culled from 
Paul Myron's long sojourns in China, it is most enter- 
taining and will continue to be a guide-post of Chinese 
interpretation. 
Chinese John. To correct in a delightfully buoyant style 

our common misconceptions of the Chinese. 
Latch Strings to China. Charming studies of Chinese life 
portrayed in cleverly plotted tales of tragedy, mystery 
and humor, . . . with the lurid setting of walled cities, 
and spun as smoothly as the silken weave of a Chinese 

^^^ ^' ROIVIANCES OF TRAVEL 

Daniei Dares. Around the world honeymoon story of life 
and love, and a delightful departure from the humdrum 
treatment of the Paris Latin Quarter where the fas- 
cinating plot is centered. 

The World Gone IVIad The intimate story of a woman's 
love as influenced by war. 

IVIIss American Dollars.* A story of American patriotism. 
OTHER SUBJECTS 

Our Pacific Neighbors. New viewpoints of the Far Bast. 
Paul Myron's six years' incumbency as United States 
Judge in the Philippines and his subsequent wide travels 
in all parts of the Far East form the material for this 
straight- away narrative. 

The House That Banished Worry. A popular novel of 
human emotion as developed by conventional religions. 
A book that will come like a vacation to tired people, 
as it points to new perspectives of life. 

Bugle Rhymes from France.* The story of the battlefields 
told in spirited verse. 

Ship Players' Comedy Collection. The first of its kind. 
Literary inventions of wholesome fun for presenting 
dramatics on the natural scenery and deck-accessory 
staging of a ship. Paul Myron's hundred crossings of 
the great seas crystallize their delightful experiences in 
these unique comedies that revolutionize ship entertain- 
ment. Both players' and readers' editions. 

Mid-Nation Publishers 

Milwaukee - Chicago 



The following pages are advertisements of Paul Myron's books, 
from the list of MID-NATION PUBLISHERS. 



PAUL MYRON 

IN HIS 

"Chinese Chances Through Europe's War** 

has succeeded in doing the "impossible" in awakening the 
American Public to a live interest in China. 




ORDINARILY books on China have a limited circulation ive but 

meagre and indifferent comment. Consequently the publisher^ of Paul 
Myron's "Our Chinese Chances," with gratitude, acknowledge the wide 
publicity given this volume by the press of the English speaking world all the 
way from the Dan of the London Spectator to the Beersheba of the Far 
Eastern Review. The following comment is given as representative of the 
different sections in the United States. 

"Entertaining account." — Boston Globe. 

"A well informed book." — Portland Oregonian. 

"Much valuable information." — Los Angeles Express. 

"Speaks with authority." — Milwaukee Journal. 

"Volume one of interest; agreeably written." — Providence Journal. 

"Writes with conviction, authority and obviously first-hand knowledge." 

— Montreal Daily Star. 

"Judge Linebarger's book (Paul Myron's) gives one a clear-cut idea of 
China, . . . writes with a flowing and competent pen." — Musical Leader. 

"A man not only of conviction, but of more than casual acquaintance 
with the Chinese." — New York Independent. 

"The book has an interest apart from the utilitarian side in the account 
of the personal experience of travel in China." — New York Sun. 

"A very informing volume — a most readable book filled with matter de- 
serving of wide circulation." — Milwaukee Free Press. 

"The book is a mine of plain everyday information that is eminently 
calculated to appeal to the general reader as well as to the special class for 
which it is directly designed." — Washington (D. C.) Star. 

"The book has a real value for readers who wish to read all sides and 
form their own judgments." — Madison Journal. 

"Description, narratives and conclusions are unusually interesting and 
entertaining and will serve to dispel common misconceptions of China and its 
many distinct peoples." — New Orleans Times Picayune. 

"Paul Myron in his volume on the Chinese empire leaves little to be 
desired by those who wish to obtain a clean cut idea of China and her people, 
for not only is the book written with a thorough understanding of the subject 
but by one in whom a deep heart interest colors every line. This interesting 
volume is a travelogue and modern history of China combined." — Detroit News. 

"Paul Myron, soldier, traveler, lecturer, lawyer, judge, has been a writer, 
but only when he reached the age of forty and by rare good fortune, came into 
highly productive real estate, could he afford hirnself the leisure of writing of 
the sentimental and romantic side of the Chinese . . . 'Our Chinese 
Chances' is the result of his ten years of intermittent study of trade conditions 
In China." — Saint Louis Globe Democrat. 

"In 'Our Chinese Chances' Paul Myron does more than give suggestions. 
He paints a charming and interesting picture of Chinese life. It is a readable 
and delightful book well illustrated." — Indianapolis News. 




Hy 



ron 



Picture of a Chinese lady of quality by ^^omin, the great Chines^ 
artist of a thousand years ago. Note how few and simple are the lines 
and yet how distinctive the portrait., "Our Chinese Chances gives a 
tvrnTiathetic and true idea of the Chinese. 220 pages with 35 illustra- 
tSSronuVges, cloth bound. $1.25 net. mailing weight 22 oum.^^^^^ 
had wherever books are sold and f^om MID-NATION PUBl.lbtUi.K^^ 
Linebarger Terrace. Milwaukee, Wis., U. S. A., and 535-537 W. b-ina bt., 
Chicago, 111., U. S. A. 




T?ror,.^^!, ^f o propbecies through old steady Colonel Ward, and that brilliant 
French character Prima, have come true ; and although this charming romance of travel 
Is now a past and true page in our history's chronicle, it still shows in a most enter- 
taining form the motive spirit of the Hohenzollerns, whom we are now fighting, 
i^a^nws: that arch-conspirator. Where else is there found a truer picture (sketched L 
It were in some hidden cabinet of Potsdam) of the typical, scheming diplomat of the 
Kaiser school of intrigue? 'Miss American Dollars' proves the justification of our 
American Cause, against the caste-rule of the Hohenzollerns and the Hapsburgs " 

,2: "^^F^' ^'*^ 6 illustrations by Francois Olivier, cloth bound, $1.25 net, mailing 
ottI *To?^^,^oo°^^oW J^2 ^^ ^^J" wherever books are sold and from MID-NATION 
PUBi.IbHERS. 535-537 West Sixty-second St., Chicago, 111., and Linebarger Terrace. 
Milwaukee, Wis. 



AN INTEEVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR OF ''MISS AMERICAN 

DOLLARS'' 

Paul Myron's ''Miss American Dollars" fascinated me strangely. 
I wanted to know something about the author. I found the following in 
' ' Who 's Who in America ' ' : 

"LINEBAEGER, Paul Myron Wentworth ("Paul Myron"), lawyer, 
author; h. Warren, 111., June 15, 1871, s. Rev. Isaac and Lucy Ellen 
(Estes) ; Ed. Naperville Coll. and Lake Forest U. until 1889; law student 
in Paris, France, 1889-1892; admitted to bar in Chicago, 1893; lectured 
for Congo Annex Soc. throughout Belgium; student U. of Heidelberg, 
Germany, 1893-95; began practice at Chicago, 1895; served as lieutenant 
of cavalry during Spanish- American War; appointed judge in Philip- 
pines, serving 1901-1907; on account of ill health went to Mexico City to 
recuperate and practiced there." 

This interested me all the more in the man. An American who has 
spent so much time abroad is generally interesting. I found out that he 
lived out in the South Shore section of a Great Lake city, when he was 
not in retirement at his Tidewater Lodge, in the great pine forests of the 
Mississippi Sound. His grandfather had been, it seemed, one of the first 
settlers of the city and the grandson had turned builder to shape what 
was left of the old farm into city squares. 

I found the author in a quaint, rambling, vine-entwined bungalow 
set up on a hill crowned with a grove and flovv^er garden, and beyond lay 
an apple orchard with its white blossoms. 

I reflected upon that instinct of human nature that makes men cling 
to the environment of their youth. Here was a man who knew intimately 
every land under the sun, and yet who loved to live among the apple trees 
of his childhood. 

' ' ' Miss American Dollars ' has attracted a great deal of attention, ' ' 
I commenced, ' ' because it is so out of the commonplace — so exciting. ' ' 

He did not seem to be much interested, but responded, "I merely 
write the same stuff that I like to read. ' ' 

"What authors do you prefer?" I asked, and then reflected that it 
was rather a general question, since Paul Myron knows five European and 
two Asiatic languages. 

' ' There are many in all the principal languages, and each language 
offers so much that the life of a Methusaleh would not suffice to follow 
the deep furrows in any given field of literary endeavor. I sometimes 
regret that I have had such a variety of linguistic environment. The 
knowledge of several languages has a tendency to make a dilettante out 
of the most diligently practical student, when it comes to the clean-cut 
specialization on just one language. If Shakespeare had known his 
French or Latin well, he would never have given the world what he has. 
The polyglot mind has too wide a perspective to pick up details. Hardly 
without exception, the really great 'Lords of Language' have known only 
one tongue. So the little author of to-day has a hard job on his hands 
if he is handicapped with a half dozen sets of complete vocabularies, 
each over-lapping the fineness of the other's meaning, and may never get 
even a bruised and faded leaf of literary laurels, for his standard may 
be subconsciously taken from a source unknown to his readers, and when 

143 



it comes to preferences, . . . they are unfortunately overly composite 
and polyglot. ' ' 

I took out a package from a clipping bureau which I had with me. 
He was mildly interested and so I read some of the clippings. I wanted 
to draw him out and thought that to be as good a way as any. They 
were about as follows: 

' * The book grips the reader from cover to cover. ' ' — San Francisco 
News-Letter. ''What he (father of Miss American Dollars) does with 
his millions should kindle patriotism in the heart of every reader. ' ' — New 
York Herald. ' ' An interesting romance of travel. ' ' — Pittsburgh Gazette- 
Times. ' ' The timeliness of the volume adds greatly to its interest. ' ' — 
Cincinnati Times-Star. "Here is a red-hlooded, robust story, in whicli 
the author, a well known traveler and scholar, uses a clever plot, in direct- 
ing attention to the evils of European caste. . . . Of real educational 
value and will make the pacifist shrink. . . . It is decidedly a 
startling hook." — Albany Times-Union. "A rattling good story told in 
the author's best style." — Pittsburgh (Pa.) Press. ''Even if the story 
stopped here, without a jot of its adventure and romance, its call of 
patriotism would carry far. ' ' — St. Louis Star. ' ' The climax is thrilling 
and unexpected. ' ' — Buffalo News. ' ' All his narratives have a fascinat- 
ing Oriental touch and his latest romance is no exception. ' ' — Columbus 
(0.) Journal. "A great deal of exciting incident, plotting and counter- 
plotting, but more interesting even than the story are the descriptions of 
the lesser known countries that are bearing their share of the brunt of 
the war. ' ' — Dallas News. ' ' He writes as one who knows his world and 
the characters with which he peoples it. ' ' — Deseret Evening News. ' ' The 
war scenes are graphic. ' ' — New York Evening Post. ' ' More important 
than his faithful picture of the nations at war and the charming tale he 
has told is his appeal to America." — New York Evening Mail. "His 
intimate acquaintance with foreign lands gives us many authentic 
glimpses of Italy, Greece, Turkey and Albania, with their tense political 
situations and interesting social conditions. ' ' — Scientific American. 
". . , It's good." — Nashville Tennesseean. "There is not a dull 
moment in it. Paul Myron reveals an intimate knowledge of the way of 
the Eastern Mediterranean countries ... so that the pleasure trip 
on which he launches his 'dramatis personae' unfolds itself before the 
reader's eye like a beautifully painted panorama. Eiehard Harding 
Davis in all his repertory hasn't a better hero than Tim O'Eourke, 
. . . nor could two better woman characters be painted than the 
French prima donna and the sweet American girl, Athena. ' ' — Milwau- 
kee Sentinel. ". . . That's the charm and wonder of this master 
tale." — Birmingham Age-Herald. ". . . An absorbing story." — 
Portland (Me.) Press. " . . . Plenty of action, . . . vast knowl- 
edge of foreign countries." — Chicago Examiner. "The story is well told 
and with a punch which only an American could instill into this Ameri- 
can romance of travel and jeremiad against unpreparedness all in the 
same book. 'Miss American Dollars' will take a truly enviable place. 
. . . To each it will have some especial appeal, but each will be 
equally charmed with its originality, its refreshing oddness. " — Pitts- 
burgh (Pa.) Leader. "A story for Americans who think and a warning 
for those who don't." — Pittsburgh (Pa.) Dispatch. "Action through 
to windup. ... No reader is apt to go to sleep over it." — Boston 

144 



Globe. ". . . Dramatic and strongly presented novel." — Portland 
Oregonian. ' ' With Prima the plot connects without a flicker in the 
motion of the picture and the interest is spellbound until the candle 
burns down, ' ' — Salt Lake City Herald. " . . . Stirring romance. ' ' — 
Book News Monthly. "The theme of preparedness has a new presenta- 
tion and one that shows the imaginative ability of the author. . . . 
A plot geared to high speed adventure." — Book Seller, Newsdealer and 
Stationer. ''Ouida and Archibald Clavering Gunter might have col- 
laborated in writing this book. ' ' — Hartford (Conn.) Courant. " . . . . 
Interesting and illuminating volume." — Philadelphia Press. ^'Paul 
Myron 's story has a strange fascination. ' ' — Rochester Post-Express. 
* ' . . . Prima. Depth of feeling and force of character are here. ' ' — 
Winnipeg (Manitoba) Free Press. * ' To know the near and far countries 
of the world, to have lived long among foreign peoples, speaking their 
languages and pulsing their racial instincts, are the first essentials of 
such authorship." — St. Louis Star. "A story whose timeliness is but 
one of its chief charms. ' ' — Leslie 's Weekly. 

He listened still with a mild interest as I read, and then said: 
"Eather than press criticism I should prefer to know what each 
reader, as he finished the reading, really thought of it. The movies and 
autos have distracted the public generally away from the entertainment 
of books, but I am satisfied that the demand for good books to-day is as 
great as it ever was. But people generally don 't write enough. To read 
appreciatively one should be able to write — not books particularly — but 
letters and those little occasional jottings-down which are one of the 
delights of culture. Every line thoughtfully written develops introspec- 
tion and makes man by self-analysis worth more to himself. ' ' 

Then a long talk between us; it became a tete-a-tete rather than an 
interview, and at its end, as I glanced back at the old orchard with its 
mass of white blossoms, I contrasted the quiet surroundings with Paul 
Myron's exciting wanderings in far-off lands, and of the romance of 
travel which had brought me as its devotee to the door of the creator of 
* ' Miss American Dollars. ' ' 



BUGLE EHYMES FEOM FEANCE, BY PAUL MYEON 

It seems quite natural that Paul Myron, who instituted the archive 
^'Les Comhattants Francais," published by the French Government in 
1900 and translated and published by the American Government the fol- 
lowing year, should make as his contribution to war literature the 
charming tribute to the French of his "Bugle Bhymes from France.'* 
(8vo., cloth, illustrated, $1.00 net. Mid-Nation Publishers, Chicago.) 

Paul Myron starts out with the premise that everybody (including 
their ugly neighbor across the Ehine) acknowledges the valor and racial 
intrepidity of the French, and his idealism of that noble people is 
unmeasured; an idealism that is founded upon a thorough and inti- 
mate observation of the French, commencing in youth, while in attend- 
ance of schools in the Latin-Quarter, and continuing through long and 
frequent sojourns in the heau pays, even into the first year of the War. 



145 



These metrical compositions are more than their modest title would 
indicate. 

In nearly a hundred spirited poems, he plays out the tragic song of 
the great war, in a rhythm of grim pathos, softened by sentiment and 
heightened at times by touches of rare humor. And through it all there 
comes the lusty chorus of our allied soldiers, whose keynote is courage to 
the final echo of the bugle. 

It is clean-cut, strong, natural verse that brings to the fireside some- 
thing of the courage of trench and salient and gives us familiar glimpses 
of the billet and the barracks. 

While attentive to the exactions of the most critical scanning and 
verse analysis, Paul Myron pours out his tale of the battlefields like a 
breathless messenger, whose pointed finger shows the way of Victory 
the flags of the allies has taken. 

The verses give a chronological sketch of American soldier life and 
combat, on the French front, beginning with the entrance of Americans 
with the French Foreign Legion and the Ambulance Corps. 

The most casual reader of these verses will be struck with the 
thought that nowhere in the entire collection is the word German, or its 
derivatives, used ; the author employs Prussian instead of German. 

The attitude of the author in regard to the responsibility of the war 
is easily understood. He does not charge Germany with being the insti- 
gator of the war, but very forcibly arraigns the Prussian-Hohenzollern 
caste-rule, as headed by the Kaiser, as the self-confessed defendant of 
the crimes of war before the tribunal of God. Nearly every line of the 
entire volum.e cries out against the Hohenzollerns and the mad instincts 
of their forbears ; the old, savage Borussi, whose Icultur found its motif 
in the barbaric instinct of depredation. 

Since the author is himself of Prussian extraction, this attitude is 
all the more forceful and readily understood, for there are none more 
loyally American and pro-ally to-day than the descendants of these same 
Prussians who, years agO;, fled from their fatherland to escape the very 
thing which to-day those descendants are fighting — ^Hohenzollern rule. 

Paul Myron, in the presentation of this fascinating contribution to 
war poetry, proves himself not only a gifted American patriot, but an 
enthusiastic pro-ally, with unbounded glorification of the French cause. 

Happy is his theme of confidence existing between French and Amer- 
ican soldiers, which is particularly touching in the lines, ^'Bon jour to 
you, Mussoo Pauloo, ' ' one of the many gems of the volume, which, when 
eventually translated into French, will find great popularity with our 
gracious ally. 

"Bugle Bhymes from France'* will afford the waiting ones at home 
(for whom the volume was likewise written) a clearer idea of the new 
overseas environment of the soldier members of their families. The 
information is frequently connected up with some popular phase of home- 
life, as in the happy philosophy, "Playing Ball Lilce a Hand-Grenadier." 

It is remarkable what new ideas these brief verses give of American 
soldier-life in France?, a short poem of a half dozen verses painting a 
picture which it would take whole pages of prose to describe. 

The author is a master of the rare art of brevity and his verses 
drive along with all the clearness and connection of a well-ordered motion 
reel, allowing an opportunity in even a casual evening's reading of the 

146 



poems for something of an acquirement of war philosophy, as interpreted 
by the men in the trenches. 

Paul Myron was fortunate in having revisited the Western Front, 
shortly before the terrible German drive, and among the last to behold it 
still beautiful, before touched by the ravages of war. What is more 
winsome than "On the Lovely Lys/' or "The Angelus in Flanders'"^ 

American soldier-leave, in Paris, is portrayed in such delightful 
sketches as "French Wine in Barley Soup," "On the Eue de Eivolee,'^ 
and "In the Faubourg Saint Antoine." 

The narrative poems will particularly delight a sense of patriotism; 
no vapid boasting, but a calm declaration from the viewpoint of soldier 
and civilian that the war shall be won by the resolute courage of free 
men. 

The volume is indexed into COMBAT VEESE, which are concerned 
with actual service in battle ; the SUNNY SIDE IN PKANCE, made up 
of humorous and sentimental sketches of soldier-leave in Paris, and 
BUGLE ECHOES FROM HOME. One of these echoes is destined to be 
heard for a long time in that delicately shaded poem, " Siveet spice and 
Ointment/' whose every line is a willing and solemn pledge to the great 
cause of American democracy and of which the last words are : 

"Thy sweetspice is thy very life, and ointment is thy clay; 
War is that tomb, but peace shall come, and roll the stone away," 

the motive of these beautiful verses being taken from Luke's story of 
the "Women at the Sepulchre." 

Almost any educated person can with patience, a rhyming dictionary 
and a collection of poems (to serve as models), work up verses which will 
pass scanning as mechanically perfect ; but to sail right out into the wide 
sea of poetic thought and in the open boat of one's own imagination, 
one must not only know the world and the fullness thereof, but be gifted 
with that instinct which finds a compass in the stars and a chart over the 
trackless ocean. There is not a line in "Bugle Bhymes" that does not 
bespeak the rare originality and power of creation of the author. Paul 
Myron is known as a successful novelist, but why has he so long kept 
to himself his rarer gift of picturing the philosophy of life in the rich 
colors of beautiful and fascinating verse? His poem on the Brother- 
hood of Man, which first appeared in the Chicago Eecord-Herald during 
the Boer War, was largely copied throughout the English-speaking press 
abroad, and numbers of his poems have appeared from time to time here 
and there, but this is his first volume of published verse. 

These verses are rich poetry, and in a variety, both of subject and 
measure, which is charming. The nimble dancing trochees, the steady 
tread of iambics, and the slower yet majestic march of the spondee are 
all there in perfect assignm_ent with their other sisters, in Paul Myron's 
minstrel hall of song, where even the rarely used tribrach finds a part 
here and there of these thrilling bugle calls and echoes of war. 

The verses will be eagerly read by both the waiting ones at home 
(for whom there are numerous footnotes, in explanation of soldier 
phraseology and French words), and by our armed men, whether in 
domestic cantonments or foreign billets, and will moreover prove an 
authoritative commentary on the sentiment of the day long after Peace 
has at last come, 

147 



Many of these charming narrative poems are particularly attractive to 
the recitationist, and ''Gawk Swan" and the "Jump-off County News 
in Trance" will be heard at many a school-day exercise, as well as that 
touching exposition of the American spirit of accommodation, even on 
the battlefield, as shown in *'Say, Fellow, Try to Wake." 

Paul Myron has not forgotten the mothers nor the lovers, in this time 
of war's separations. For the former he has that exquisite little poem, 
' ' In France, . . . Somewhere, ' ' whose last words will find an echo in 
every American mother 's heart. 

And for the lovers the lines filled with feeling, from the ''Sign on 
the Wall," which is one of the very few but eloquent confessions of the 
misery of war ; the aim of the collection being to exhilarate and enhearten 
his readers to the glory and triumph side of war. 

Of course, such a collection would not be complete without something 
about the brave Irish blood being shed in this struggle, and in " A Hero 
Without Mention ' ' the author thrills his reader, in a plot and climax, 
running in a beautifully modulated verse, whose every rhythmic ending 
is the opening of a door to a new and fascinating suspense. The picture 
of Iky Blum praying in Yiddish at the shell-made grave of his hero- 
comrade, Pat O 'Flynn, will stay long in the memory, and no tale of com- 
radeship could be more beautifully pathetic or more charmingly told. 

They are broad-minded verses, inspired with the highest sense of the 
win-the-war spirit. 

One can readily see by even a cursory examination of these rich verses 
that they are the result of a labor limited to a very restricted time. A 
few weeks must have been the limit within which most of the collection 
was written, since the chronology of the events depicted in many of the 
poems is a matter of the last monthly rex-iews. 

To some critics it will seem a pity that such genuinely beautiful and 
finished verses as those of "Good-bye, Papa," with a perfect flood of 
melody and sentiment, and with suggestions of the imagist and vorticist, 
should almost immediately be followed in the collection by a unique but 
careless jangle of humor on the Kaiser's Creed and a whimsical jingle 
of propaganda on Liberty Bonds whose prosaic syllables Paul Myron 
strikes as a chime from our liberty bell. 

Evidently Paul Myron, having proved that he has the gift of most 
delightful versification, does not care a v^histle what the critics of his 
present collection may say of some of his verses, since he has the 
assurance that they convey his message to all conditions and kinds. 

His aim is not to display his poetic erudition, but to awaken among 
all elements of our American citizenship the full spirit of patriotism, 
and to do this he seems very willing to give some of his poems the rude 
simplicity of forceful prose. 

There is not a poem of the whole collection in which in the back- 
ground of its sentiment you can not see his hand painting as on a sign- 
board, "Win the War! Win the War!" and he is so certain in his 
message that he throws down the challenge to criticism. Any critic who 
studies his verse thoroughly will be very loath to handle the cudgels 
against him, for there is a charm — the charm of real poetry — even in his 
most off-hand verse. A metrical analysis shows constructive peculiarities 
which upon a second reading are discovered to be a characteristically 
individual device to add another color to fancy or another impulse to 
sentiment. 

148 



Considering how wide the field of the collection is, it is remarkable 
how much of the great battle fronts Paul Myron covers in the skillful 
play of his bright-winged imagination shining through the gloomy roads 
of war, and through his metrical art bringing the always cheerful reas- 
surance of victory for America and her Allies. 

His short tales in lyric verse, such as "Eags," ''The Tale of 
' Guess, ' ' ' are rich in colors painted with the swift brush of imaginative 
creation, true to the soldier side of the psychology of war. 

These tales are composed mostly in iambic pentameter couplets, 
novelly constructed into paragraphs of narration, whose alterations of a 
quick refrain measure emphasize the sweetness of the measure, imme- 
diately suggesting sympathy for the hero characters which it portrays. 

The central thought of these tales, as well as the spirit of the whole 
collection, is the heroic protest and struggle of the American mind 
against Prussian militarism. The sermon preached is that the world 
will only be perfectible when the Kaiser and his ilk are overthrown. 

The war verse up to the present time of other poets and versifiers 
has shown more or less Kipling's influence. The present collection of 
Paul Myron is perhaps unique in that his words come in his own style and 
voice. He is perhaps up to the present time the only present war poet 
who has dealt with the American soldier just as we know him; a soldier 
that Kipling never knew and that only an American and one who has 
himself been a soldier like Paul Myron can understand. There is nothing 
of ' ' Blighty " or " Blime me ' ' in these verses, but indeed the story of 
our brave men at the front as we knew them at home; determined, strong 
and irrevocable to win this war for God and His humanity. 

Some of Paul Myron 's contrasts of thought present most pleasing sur- 
prises; always ingenious and at time thrilling. His memory is an inex- 
haustible store-house of soldier information, due to his having been a 
cavalry officer. He knows the soldier and knows that ordinarily he does 
not care for ''poetry." Hence, undoubtedly, the title of "Ehymes. " 
For what soldier doesn't like rhymes? And what soldier is there who 
will not take these verses to his heart as they bubble out as naturally as 
water flowing from a fountain? 

The collection introduces one, through romantic and historical tales, 
told in rhythmic form and worked up through plots of soldier logic to 
that ideal world where love abounds, in which God presides and the 
angels sing with its paradise for dead soldiers. 

There is an artistic unity in these images which he thus creates, 
as well as for those men of flesh and blood who stand out as ideals 
before the great setting of war, and never for a moment does the hand 
tremble in striking out the music of the songs. 



THIS SIDE OF FEANCE 

A SOLDIER-TRANSPORT COMEDY 

To give a chance for cheerful entertainment to our soldiers on their 
voyage to France, the publishers add to this collection of soldier verse 
Paul Myron's three-act comedy, "This Side of France." This play is 



149 



most original in the novelty of its stagecraft, since the only stage, 
scenery and stage equipment necessary is the deck of a ship and its 
common accessories. It will give our soldier men many a hearty laugh 
at the supposed dangers of the submarines when they are right in the 
zone itself. 

It presents by the contrast of situations and combinations of per- 
sonalities an hour full of laugh, through the intricacies of an amusing, 
surprising and cleverly laid plot. 

As far as the publishers know, it is the first play ever written pri- 
marily for production on the natural setting of a ship. Its aim is not 
only to cheer and enliven the soldier during the bugbear period of the 
sea voyage to the battle front, but to enhearten them with the courage 
of the hero that it portrays. 

The play carries a prologue in blank verse to ''those who go singing 
on to France." 

MID-NATION PUBLISHERS 
Chicago 



150 



